


A Matter of Timing

by WriterChick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, F/M, Game of Thrones fic, Loss of Virginity, Pregnancy, Romance, did i mention angst???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:38:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 80,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: Despite the practicality of their marriage, Lord Stannis Baratheon and the Lady Sansa develop true feelings for one another. Time and misconceptions stand between them, forcing them to work for whatever chance at love they have left.





	1. Maidenhead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> This work has no beta, so thank you in advance for putting up with my poor grammar. If you are someone less grammatically challenged than I am, and wanna help out with betaing, feel free to message me @0writerchick0 on tumblr.

“Please tell him I accept his invitation,” Sansa whispered from behind her cup of tea, eyeing the potential target before her.

Margaery ignored the fine specimen of man standing by the fireplace. “Shall I tell him now? Grandmama says it’s important to remain elusive. Perhaps I should prolong your response?”

“Prolong it?” Sansa asked, her stomach upsetting over the thought of missed opportunity. Renly Baratheon, handsome and rich, had taken notice of her. Enough notice to extend a secret invitation, passed through the hands of her nearest friend. It was to join him in one of the lesser used libraries of Highgarden. For what purpose, it did not say. Her mother’s voice in her head warned her not to accept,  _True gentlemen have no honorable reason to meet a lady apart from society._ Her father’s agreed,  _Lords looking to marry understand they do so to the whole family, not only the Lady they fancy._

He turned to face her, his elbow resting on the mantle with as little care as any other man of leisure. His smile was radiant as he spoke with his dearest friend, Loras Tyrell, and returned her look of subtle admiration. A quick glance to Lord Tyrell and then back at her own friend beside her reminded of their close relations. Sansa Stark was a lady of the north, new to this city and without the support of her more extravagant connections would never garner such attention.

The original hope had been to gain favor with Margaery’s brother Loras, though word was that he was acquainted with many men--who took no ladies. It was shameful, and only his fortune would protect his place in society. It was a scandal Sansa couldn’t afford to be caught in, facing too much of it in her own family. She was lucky Loras showed her no inclination.

She’d been orphaned the year she was brought out, and spent most of the time shrouded in various shades of black dress. At the time she scarcely considered what it meant to have such a slow start in her hunt for a husband, too consumed with her sadness. She’d come out the other side of it now, and found herself floundering at each party, still pitied, still persona non grata. Sansa could not afford to miss such an opportunity, regardless of reserve. “No. Please, don’t. I will meet him.”

Margaery responded with a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders before rising from her seat and sauntering toward the fireplace. She looped her arm in her brothers as she grinned and spoke so easily to Renly. Sansa averted her gaze, feeling their eyes on her. He took leave of the room, clasping Lord Tyrell’s shoulder as he did. Margaery made her way back to her, perching on the edge of her seat as she brought her cup to her lips and whispered, “It’s been arranged.”

There it was.

No going back now.

The minutes that passed felt much like hours as Sansa fought a fidget, listening to the click of the grand mahogany clock sitting in the corner of the room. Milliseconds before it’s official chime, she was rising to excuse herself. There could have been any number of acceptable reasons behind her departure, all very innocent, and she prayed all in company would assume any one of them.

Scurrying down the corridor, her velveted shoes knew more air than marble, practically taking flight. As she neared the door, she glanced around her, only then thinking to concoct some last minute excuse for entering the private library. Should she brandish the secret message from Lord Renly Baratheon, himself?

No. Of course not.

It had all been very hush-hush, and her presence here was meant to be quite covert. Saving her from bumbling through some slapdash explanation, the servant stationed by the entrance gave her a polite bow and turned to open the door for her. Sansa hesitated, unnerved by the welcome, having not expected her presence to be so planned by anyone but Lord Renly.

She took a careful step forward, staring down at her skirts, ensuring they were all out of door before it closed. Her hands flattened against her dress, wiping away the anxious perspiration that clammed her palms. Rallying herself to face her secret suitor, she drew a deep breath and raised her chin.

To her surprise, it was not Renly Baratheon--dashing and debonair, that greeted her. Instead it was another, a much older man. The famous Baratheon blue-eyes and few other similarities lead her to believe it may be one of his older brothers. The shock must have been prevalent in her expression, because he offered her a rueful smile. “Not who you were expecting?”

“Oh,” she gasped. “Uh…” Caught and unsure what to say, she knew anything she did would only incriminate her further. “I apologize, I was looking for the powder room.”

He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “I appreciate your dedication to subterfuge, but you may cease your efforts. It was I that extended you the invitation to meet, not my brother.”

No. That couldn’t be. Renly had signed it himself. She pulled the small paper from the folds of her skirt and opened it to verify that fact. Her gaze landed on the signature at the bottom.  _Lord Baratheon._

Not Renly.

Drat.

There were three of them--Lord Baratheons.

She chided herself for assuming so eagerly that it was the youngest most desireable one that called upon her. Scanning the man up and down, she more closely took in his features. Tall and lean, his chest broad and proud. High cheekbones and a formidable chin, he was handsome in his own right--for a man of his age. Not waife-thin by any means, as some of the lords in this province, he hadn’t a stitch of fat on him.

Stannis.

This one had to be Stannis.

Robert was rumored to be a fat lech; a friend her own father enjoyed in his youth, though had stopped corresponding with as the lessons of time changed him. Stannis was the middle brother, made his name in the military as most in his position would. He was said to be a commander or brigadier, or some other title that only mattered to other men in uniform and the ladies that hung on their arms. She’d meant to avoid men like that, knowing their particular prospects were better appreciated by women of lesser standing.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she asked the obvious question that hung in the air between them. “Why?”

He raised the glass in his hand, gesturing for her to accept it. She did, watching him closely as he explained, “I presume you knew the purpose behind the invitation when you believed it was Renly’s hand that penned it.”

“Courtship.” The word fell from her lips, the weight of it suddenly too heavy to keep inside.

Something that an hour before sent butterflies flying in her stomach, now had it churning. She pictured herself riding in carriages with the man before her, sharing a box at the opera house, standing before witnesses in church. Conscious of the silence that ate at her last nerve, she asked, “You’ve only just now met me, may I ask what has so inclined you?”

The question was moronic and she knew it. She was a lady with a strong name, young and beautiful. That was enough for most men. Why would Lord Stannis Baratheon be any different? The vast majority of his time had probably been spent on the open sea and he hadn’t ever truly had occasion to think of a woman past the symmetry of her features.

“I’m not.”

Her head shot up at that. “Excuse me?” She asked, taking a grain of offense to his simple admission.

He quickly cleared his throat. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your…” Nodding forward and raising his glass at her, he closed his eyes and sighed. “I mean to say, your beauty is very…”

She took some small amount of relief in his struggle. It was nice to see him jarred, served the man right for his original deception and any further insinuation that she wasn’t worth wanting.

Sighing at his own fluster, he regrouped. “My wife passed, and when she did-”

“Bless her soul,” she cut him off, hoping to end the conversation with cordiality. “You have my condolences.”

“Don’t mourn her. She was a frigid witch.”

Sansa whirled around, surprised by a familiar feminine voice.

Margaery.

Betrayal warmed her blood to boil.

“Don’t be mad, Sansa.” Margaery leaned back against the door, grinning. “I merely saw an opportunity. Stannis needs a wife and you a husband.”

Not so indiscriminately.

“Lord Baratheon is a fine man, in name, character, and wealth. I am certain he doesn’t require the use of a matchmaker,  _Margaery_ ,” Sansa all but growled.

There was a flicker of amusement in the man’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Alas,” Margaery sighed, dramatically. “Circumstances have ravaged his prospects.”

Sansa glanced to the man of hour. He took a long sip of his drink, avoiding reply. “What circumstances?”

Margaery spoke for him. “Military men need so little, Sansa. Second sons are given less still.”

Realization dawned on her as she turned to Stannis in accusation, “You were financed by your wife.”

He downed the rest of the alcohol in his glass and set it down on the table beside him. “I  _was_.”

As in, he was no longer.

Sansa turned back to Margaery. “You lied to bring me here with the sole intention of negotiating a marriage to a man many years my senior with no means of providing for me?” Rage got the better of her as she advanced on her. “You claim to be my friend?”

“I am!” Margaery assured her. "That's why I'm here. To help you see the potential." 

“I have resources, Lady Sansa,” Lord Stannis Baratheon interjected. “I have means of providing for you.” He glanced away. “They just haven’t been released to me.”

Pausing as she attempted to better understand, Sansa glanced at him. “Please explain yourself, Sir.”

“She was a spiteful woman,” Margaery spoke to his defense.

“Her father’s lawyers suspended all the accounts until certain conditions are met,” Stannis answered.

“Unreasonable conditions,” Margaery added, as if to add to his credibility.

Sansa found herself in need of a sip of her own. “What unreasonable conditions?”

“I have-- _had_ a daughter.”

“Had?”

“Yes, it’s tragic,” Margaery frowned as deeply as she did whenever a shopkeep was out of a choice fabric. “Fever took her, poor girl.”

“My late wife only wanted a wholesome woman to raise her daughter in the event of her passing,” Stannis explained. “Her father’s connections ran deep, and their family attorney had the utmost respect for her wishes, and wrote her will specifically to ensure the character of any future bride I may take.”

“I don’t understand.” Sansa shook her head. “Your daughter has passed--may God rest her soul.” She frowned both in sorrow and confusion. “Surely that would nullify whatever documents impeded you from marrying as you wish.”

Margaery sighed, propelling herself up off the door behind her. “Unfortunately not. Stannis must marry, and he must do so well.”

Sansa looked between them, distrust slithering through her. “Of what interest is this to you, Margaery?”

"Did you not come to me but two months ago and explain your own need for marriage?" Her voice was gentle, but Sansa felt the sting of her words regardless. 

Unable to sit with the feeling, Sansa stared at her friend as she spat back, "Since my friend is so willing to be of assistance, the solution is simple, _Lord Baratheon._ ”

Stannis furrowed his brow at her, staring quizzically.

“Marry Lady Margaery.”

Margaery glanced away, apparently feeling the strike.

“Lady Margaery, is erm…” Stannis began to explain, but fell short.

Taking a joy she'd be ashamed of later, she watched him struggle to find a delicate way of putting things while standing in front of the lady in question. “What was it you said? _‘Wholesome woman._ ’ It is a shame Lady Margaery couldn't possibly meet that requirement.”

“Lady Margaery’s virtue has come into question,” Stannis admitted.

Though her look soured for a moment, Margaery stood firm, refusing to buckle under a shame she was meant to feel. Her expression of forced amusement was her only armor and it began to grate. Sansa closed her eyes and drew as deep a breath as her corset would allow. “I assume that's problematic for you.”

"To varying degrees." Stannis fought to keep from fidgeting with the coin in his pocket. He was not a perfect man, but he always placed all his effort into being as close to. Marrying the Whore of Babylon would have only taken him further from his aspirations, despite her dowry and connections. She was a dear friend to Renly and when she suggested Lady Sansa, offering to make such a match, he allowed her to bend his ear. Lady Sansa's pedigree was without question, and due to tragedy, she was left without much familial support in the world. Young and innocent, tasked with finding a husband to provide and protect--both things he was confident he could do. Convincing her to accept his hand should not have been so difficult. “The documentation was quite specific. No room for interpretation, I’m afraid.”

“Allow your lawyer to decide such things,” she quipped.

He bit the inside of his cheek at that. Her eyes were piercing as she glared back at him, and he felt the oddest urge to reach for her, brush his fingertips over her brow to smooth the wrinkle in it.

“Maidenhead!”

Margaery. He sighed at her exasperating impulsivity. Perhaps it was important in reaching Lady Sansa's reason, surely she knew her friend better than he.  

“Excuse me?” Sansa asked.

“That’s what it says. Exactly.” She leaned in to better disrupt his thoughts of Lady Stark. “Stannis must marry a woman with her ‘maidenhead’ intact.”

“Maidenhead?” She gasped in disbelief.

Stannis found himself blanching a little at her shock. The word was definitely old-world, dated and undignified, but brooked no room for misinterpretation. He cursed his late wife her thorough counsel. Rubbing the back of his neck, Stannis stood strong, determined not to back down. “I apologize for the crass nature of the word, it is what was written in the will.”

“I see,” Sansa replied, listlessly.

Margaery cocked her head, her voice more gentle now. “Do you?”

“I do.” Sansa lifted her chin. “You’re asking for my hand in matrimony because you feel I meet the requirements necessary to collect your inheritance.”

“You do,” Margaery confirmed.

“Do I?” Having a taste of the upper hand, Sansa attempted to instill some degree of doubt.

Stannis snatched the bait and pursed his lips. “Are you confessing a stain on your character?”

It would have been so easy to lie, to say that she was. She would have been expelled from the private library, and this clandestine meeting. Gone would be the conundrum of whether or not to accept such an immoral proposal.

Her mind wouldn’t allow her to live so in the moment, however. Her parents’ passing had taught her life was more than what lay in the forefront. “No more than  _either_  of you,” she spat because surrender needn't be without struggle.

Sansa turned to face Stannis, catching his eye and noticing--not for the first time, the depth of blue that colored them. For some reason unknown to her, she suddenly very much disliked the idea of his disapproval. It shouldn't have mattered, or if anything, it should have pleased her. Instead, she felt as if she wore the stain he'd inquired about, and couldn't rid herself of it without confessing the truth. Her jaw clenched as she promised with resentment, “I assure you,  _Sir_ , that I am most chaste.”

Relief washed over him at the confirmation. He'd had such high hopes for her before he'd ever even met her, hopes that only grew exponentially upon introduction and closer inspection of her many assets.

“What, may I ask, is my due?”

The question shook him from his thoughts. Margaery answered before he could. “You’ll be married well, be the recipient of all society’s invitations and favor, and carry the title: Lady Baratheon.”

That much was obvious.

“Which, considering the various impediments you’ve faced since coming out, it is quite an accomplishment.” Margaery leaned into her. “He is not like his brothers. Either of them.” She gripped her friend’s arm and held his gaze as she attested, “It is a match your parents would be proud of, Sansa. He is a good man.”

He wasn’t who she’d dreamed of in her youth, filling her hope chest.

Stannis tried his hand at humor in the growing disquiet of things. “You look as though you’ve met with the executioner to decide noose or guillotine.”   

“Noose,” she whispered and then must have realized she’d paired voice to thought because her head shot up, her eyes wide with alarm.

Unable to hold back his amusement, he chuckled and then quickly cleared his throat. “Lady Sansa Stark, since learning of you, I’ve paid you close attention. I can honestly say, this is quite possibly the best arrangement for the both of us combined.”

“ _Arrangement_ ,” she huffed.

He looked to Margaery for support. She straightened the pendant on Sansa’s necklace, as if to make amends for her earlier duplicity, “What is it about this proposal that upsets you the most?”

“Perhaps the fact that this proposal--meant to be more romantic in nature, is quite professional,” Sansa answered honestly. This was not as she envisioned things. Was he so old he lacked the ability to bend his knee for her?

“Love is a sentiment developed over time,” Margaery assured her. Then, grasping for more, she held his gaze as she lied, “Lord Baratheon has already grown an affection for you, hasn’t he?”

Stannis eyed her suspiciously, uncomfortable with open discussion of his affections, less comfortable still with the likes of Margaery Tyrell sharing them. Lady Sansa looked to him. Was that a glimmer of hope in her eyes? Was it the same hope he'd been fostering? He gulped, feeling his starched collar close in on his throat as he followed her lead. “Yes, of course.”

“Perhaps in time, you’ll find it in your heart to return his affection,” Margaery added.

Sansa pulled free from Margaery and stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his as she dared ask, “Then this is meant to be a real marriage?”

“In all senses of the word,” he confirmed, feeling anxiety prickle his flesh.  

“Children,” she breathed.

“It’s not a matter to be rushed,” he promised, feeling himself stir in places he hadn’t expected. Not on first meeting, anyway.

Refusing to be put off, she asked, “How many?”

He wanted an heir. Losing Shireen hurt him so severely he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover. One child would do, boy or girl. He ached for a babe to carry his name, and his features. It wouldn’t replace Shireen, but it would do much to ease the heartache of a father without his daughter.

He opened his mouth to say so, when Lady Sansa turned a little in place and afforded him a perfect profile view. She was well proportioned to say the least. Her curves though much more modestly covered than other ladies--especially ones looking to court, advertised ample beauty to explore. The idea that no other man had yet known them, only added to their appeal. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “As many as you’ll give me.”

Apparently unappreciative of his lingering gaze, Sansa shook her head and spoke more to herself than anyone else in the room. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“Did you think because you are not a pauper, you are somehow exempt from the  _business_ of matrimony?” Margaery asked, her challenge meant to motivate.  

Rallying her strength Sansa countered, “I assumed--as many  _proper_ ladies do, that my station would allow more feeling than finance with the decision.”

In the silence that followed, Stannis felt himself moving forward, slowly approaching her. He lowered his voice, allowing a tone of vulnerability that he reserved only for moments of solitude, hoping it might touch her in a way he could not. “It’s not romantic, I know.” His hand reached for hers and he prayed she wouldn’t flinch away. When she didn’t, he added, “But it is honest.”

“Hmm,” she answered, glancing down.

His fingers roved hers, separating one from the rest. “I am not a young man, Lady Sansa.” He lamented the blemishes age and hard work brought his cracked and weathered hands. Her skin was so smooth against his, so without worry or hardship.

He knew she’d lost her parents, and the loss of anyone loved would smart a person to the realities of life. Perhaps she truly was as pure as her reputation boasted, though that didn’t mean she couldn’t recognize the vulgarity of loss and need. Might they meet there to start?

Sansa watched him place the ring on her finger, finding satisfaction in seeing such decoration there. His words were a gentle overlay to the glimmer of promise before her. “But I am not so old that I can not afford you some time after we are wed to grow more comfortable with…”

He trailed off and she was left with the thoughts that had been tormenting her moments before. This was not simply a marriage to release funds, but one with the expectation of heirs--and all that meant. She let her eyes travel up over his proud chest, to his strong jaw and the set of his face. There was a kindness in his eyes she hadn’t allowed herself to see before.

Her mother’s sensibility reminded her,  _Ardent inspection, often offers results regardless of whether there are any._

Her father’s assessment echoed in her brain,  _Stannis is an honorable man, rose in his ranks rightfully, through skill._

At odds again, as they so often were, Sansa turned away from the opinions of the dead. “With what?”

Stannis said nothing, only stared back at her, beseeching her not to make him say it aloud.

This was false. All of it. The proposal, the ring, the affection he claimed. “Comfortable with allowing myself to be so kept? With offering you my virtue?” Her breathing hitched as she insisted further for impact, “My  _maidenhead_?”

He said nothing, only held her hand as if relinquishing his hold would release her altogether. Stannis felt his insides call out,  _Coward_.

“Kiss her.”

Margaery’s command ripped them from their moment alone together. Surely, she was jesting, as that was often her way. There was a sincerity to her words, however. “She wants romance, Stannis. Give it to her.”

Sansa shook her head in protest. “Lord Baratheon, I-”

Her words were stopped short by his lips pressed to hers. His actions were impulsive and imbalanced and downright fiendish for a man who prided himself a gentleman. He didn’t know what came over him, the permission an opportunity he couldn’t allow himself to miss.

Her mouth was closed to his, lips firm and unyielding.

Virgin, though she may have been, her failure to accept him in even the clumsiest and inexperienced of ways, only confirmed his impropriety. Stannis resigned himself to the distance they’d had before and prepared himself for recovery from such rejection.

To his amazement, she stalled his retreat, her own mouth opening, no longer so stunned. Her lips, so set before, softened and held to his. Her tongue had been still, residing in her mouth, ignoring at first the way his swiped over it, begging it to come out and play. It had to be the fourth time he ran his over hers, that it finally stirred, darting out to timidly touch to his. It was clear she knew not what she was doing, but her willingness to bother at all encouraged the growth in his breeches.

Reason was fast leaving him, as he stepped further into her. She leaned to accommodate the imposition of his body against hers, eventually having to stagger back at his insistence. Feeling her move, he followed, guiding her to the wall behind them, his lips never leaving her. She tasted so sweet and true and he twisted his head to better catch her every move however slight, swallowing each little mewl of pleasure that escaped. Her pelvis bruised between the insistent press of his pelvis and the wood-paneled wall behind her.

The pain of it startled her and she broke free of his kiss. Heavy-lidded and single-minded, Stannis struggled to respect the limit she’d set. The flush of her cheeks had flowed down her throat to the porcelain chest that rose to touch his with each labored breath. Her lips were swollen and the perfect shade of abuse, beckoning his return to place healing kisses upon them.

He took a step back, knowing if he didn’t then, he’d lack the ability to later. “Apologies, my lady.”

Sansa smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, smoothing the wrinkles in it. She averted her gaze, whispering, “It’s quite alright.”

Stannis knew it would have been proper to school his expression, but couldn’t bring himself to. A genuine grin grew, and pride welled in his chest. She was most definitely affected by his advances.

“Time has escaped us and I must excuse myself,” she turned for the door.

He held his hand out to stop her, his grip light, careful not to injure. “Your answer?”

She played with the ring on her finger, twisting and turning it around her nimble digit. Drawing a deep breath, Lady Sansa Stark lifted her gaze to meet his. A deeper shade of red colored her features, her voice warbling as she conceded, “Yes.”

Before he could rejoice in the victory, she had slipped out of his grasp and was pulling the door open. There was so much fire in her embrace, so much beneath the delicate surface. He watched her leave, her skirts swaying with each determined step forward, Lady Margaery following close behind her.

Stannis stood still, staring down the hall long after they'd gone. He was no stranger to weathering the storm that often raged in his head. This time the winds blew from a different direction, and Stannis touched his fingers to his lips, wondering at how strangely things felt when they came from the heart.

 

 


	2. Wedding Night

Stannis carried the oil lamp down the hall to his chamber, still wearing a grin he couldn’t seem to straighten. He’d been to many weddings, suffering the various festivities and innocuous conversations, and had always spent the majority of his time wondering how soon to excuse himself. His own first wedding had been no exception, though some would say it was due to a new wife awaiting him at the end of the night.

Hardly.

His intended was plain but well-matched, an arrangement his family anticipated more than he. Stannis simply wished escape from the pomp and circumstance of it all, that he might run off and make a name for himself. A man couldn’t do that without a wife at home, birthing heirs and keeping affairs in order.

Where his first wedding was lackluster, his second wedding had been it’s polar opposite. It should have garnered the same response. He was a man of one and forty years; he knew himself well, much of the world too. There was no joy to be had in marital formalities--especially for a wedding that promised no consummatory ending to it.

He had assured Lady Sansa Stark that he was a patient man, and honor demanded he keep his word. Stannis would show the young lady a kindness she may not have received wearing another man’s ring. There was plenty to distract as it was. The party had gone well into the evening, the piano keys never cooling with the jovial tunes excitedly played by every marketable young lady in attendance. The wine flowed freely and Stannis had declined the first few glasses, not wanting his lady to think him a man easy to grow worse for drink.

His lady.

It was upon realization of such internalized possessiveness toward the beautiful bride sitting next to him, that he accepted his first drink. He glanced to the side, still wary of any impression she may be forming, but comforted all the same by the alcohol’s burn in the center of his chest. She threw her bouquet and he actually bothered to watch. The cake was cut and he was careful to feed her the piece without any mess to be embarrassed over.

She looked happy.

Truly.

Either she was an amazing actress, or betrothal to him hadn’t been quite the walk towards the hangman she’d originally thought. Wanting her mirth to continue, he gave her a look of acceptance and approval when she pardon herself with her lady’s maid, not a half hour past. It wasn’t the wedding most men felt entitled to, but it had been the best he’d ever attended by far.

Taking notice of her leave, the crowd cheered him on, thinking he would surely follow. He smiled and raised his glass to them, maintaining the facade. Waiting as long as etiquette would dictate, he allowed the more perceptive ones to begin calling upon their carriages. After the first few left, he bid the rest goodnight and allowed his butler to assist them. Travelers to their rooms, and neighbors to their coats by the entryway.

His fingers worked the buttons of his vest as he walked, starting to rid himself of the constricting layers. Stannis had given Davos, his valet, the night off. It was expected in normal circumstances as a means of respecting the timid nature of new wives. Fortunately, it had been single-handed work to that point, and he’d even been able to loosen his tie before needing his hand free to open the door to his chambers.

Stannis set the lamp on the antique bureau, older than even he. The lamp clanged into a small platter of cheeses, crackers, and fruit.

_Davos you old goat._

Apparently his trusted valet felt he and his new lady wife may need nourishment throughout the night, having exhausted themselves upon each other. Her beautiful face came to mind, the sway of her skirts as she danced, the warmth of her hands held in his as they pledged before the priest.

He wished such strenuous activity was in his future.

The thought of it alone had him growing hard in his trousers, threatening to pop any button that dared impede him. He let his hand press down against the lump, giving himself a moment of relief before he glanced over at the wash basin to ensure it had been refilled with fresh water and that clean towels had been left. Lord Baratheon was not primitive enough to ravage some poor innocent girl terrified on her wedding night, but not quite so refined that he wasn’t willing to take matters into his own hands.

Resolving to do just that, he released himself and shrugged out of his coat and vest, kicking his boots off. He was quick to yank his shirt over his head rather than work each button and stood shirtless in the open air for a moment before grabbing a piece of cheese off the platter. There really was no need for the food to go to waste, and he didn’t dare leave it untouched--lest he admit his lady hadn’t been with him to share it.

Chewing two cubes, he began to unfasten his pants. His cock had been suffocated against the front of his trousers, the head reaching the top button, barely hindered from peeking above the waistband. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but it was a state of torture he’d grown accustomed to since receiving his first notable pubic hair.

The smallest drip of seed pooled in the tip, beet-red with blood flow and purpose. He worked a few more buttons to let it fly freely and began shucking his trousers. A loud gasp startled him suddenly. Any haziness brought on by drink cleared and he was alert to any potential threat that awaited him in the shadows. Using one hand to cover his vulnerability, he reached for the lamp with his other and raised it to better scan the darkened room.

There was nothing to be found, no invader lurking in a far off corner, burglar hanging from the window sill, nor even a demonic spirit hovering an arms length away. Stannis had begun to wonder if he’d imagined the sound when he noticed something quite peculiar. There appeared to be a lump in his bed. A rather large lump. He raised the lamp higher and took a tentative step forward, narrowing his gaze.

He stifled his own exclamation when a pair of eyes at the head of the bed blinked. It was Lady Sansa Stark--Baratheon. Lady Sansa Baratheon. His new bride. The chaste woman who’d required his understanding and patience to wait a year’s time before they were to engage in marital congress and conceive of a child.

What in the bloody hell was the woman doing in his bed? Did she not know the temptation she was to him? The depravity her pouty lips and rounded hips brought about in him. Hells bells, he was ready to tear through his own breeches a moment before at just the thought of her. Now she was here--in the flesh. In his bed.

No woman came to a man’s bed without understanding what it meant. She was young, though. Without a mother to guide her.

“Lady Sansa.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat to sound more congenial. “You are not expected to-” He drew a deep breath. “That is to say, it is quite alright if-” Again he stalled before finally asking, “I trust you know where your bedchamber is?”

“Yyyes, my lord,” she replied in a shrill only nerves could create.

Realizing quickly that he was still very much naked, Stannis whirled around and set the lamp back on the bureau, pulling the top drawer open to grab the nearest dressing gown. He turned quickly to better conceal his manhood from her and throw the garment on, needing not to scare the virgin any further with the vulgar reality of the male form. Speaking away from her and instead into the darkness he found the courage to ask, “Would you like me to escort you to it?”

As soon as he uttered the offer he wanted to smash his forehead against the wardrobe beside him. She was gorgeous and pure and all his. He’d given her the freedom to choose and here she was, under the covers of his bed. Her sweet voice interrupted his personal berating. “I’m here for you, my lord  _husband_.”

That should have been enough.

Any other man would have feasted upon her willingness, regardless of the reasoning behind it. Consent wasn’t always considered necessary, especially between husband and wife. When actually given, it was meant to be more than enough. Yet, honor required explanation and not just consent but also a certain degree of desire. She was young and virtuous, but still a woman, and women were meant to want men on a deeper level than polite society would ever admit.

Stannis brought the lamp with him as he stepped carefully towards his bed. “For me?” He asked, doubtfully.

Her grip on the blankets tightened as she raised them to her chin. Setting the lamp down, he moved to sit on the edge of his bed, taking her in. She drew a deep breath and insisted, “Yes.”

“May I ask for what purpose?” The purpose was clear enough, though he hoped perhaps to offer her an escape, despite the growing throb between his legs.

She eyed him, finding her voice. “I understand the duty of a wife, my lord.”

It was as expected. She felt forced. “And I’ve told you that it isn’t expected,” he said with disgust for the situation he found himself in. Realizing his harsh tone, he worked to soften it. “We have time. We need not hurry these things.”

“Our vows will be in question they are not consummated,” she reasoned.

There was a bravery to her that he couldn’t help but admire. A better man would have ignored the courage she mustered and sent her back to her chamber, knowing she wasn’t ready to lay herself before him as she was. Stannis bit the inside of his cheek, steeling himself against the disappointment of falling so short of such  _better men_. He reached to pull back the covers, noting her automatic flinch. “I am merely climbing into my own bed, my lady.” The lamp lit her nervous features beautifully and held his heart for a beat before releasing him to ask, “Do you take issue?”

“Of course not,” she denied, shaking her head vehemently as she clutched the blankets to her.

Stannis pulled the covers up to hips and turned on his side to better spy her so close by. Her eyes grew wide at his encroaching proximity, compelling him to offer her another escape. “No one will question, my lady. We may sleep, if you wish, and they will assume more.”

As if sleep were a possibility.

The blood in his veins sang with the knowledge that she was inches from him. Even at this distance he could smell her flower perfume and feel the warmth that radiated from her soft body.

Again, her voice was as sweet as her scent as she insisted, “I understood when I agreed, that a woman’s duty is to allow her husband passage on the night they are wed and every night he desires thereafter.”

Stannis pursed his lips, disliking the idea that she was acting out of duty, but knowing there was no other possible reason why she’d lounge so freely in his chamber. “And I’ve already absolved you of that  _duty_ , but for the subject of children, to be pursued at a later time.”

“I understand the terms to which I accepted your hand,” she insisted, swallowing as he shifted on the bed, reclining further into the mattress. “That fact does not negate my own respect for the sanctity of marriage.”

_Sanctity of marriage?_

What was the girl on about? If he didn’t know better, Stannis would wonder if she were making a clumsy attempt at seduction. The very idea of it had him reaching for the woman next to him. As quickly as he’d laid palm on her arm, she jumped, trembling in her anxiety. “You’re shivering, my dear.”

If she objected to the term of endearment, she didn’t say so. Instead, she lied. “I’m cold.”

A chill in the month of August? Doubtful.

He was kind enough not to say say. “Come here, I’ll warm you,” he offered, holding his arms out for her. While he wouldn’t have at all minded a moment of wicked wiles, his offer was unfortunately with more noble intent.

“I’m quite alright,” she again lied. “There are plenty of blankets.”

He knew it was polite to feign ignorance to her transparency, but the absurdity of the situation had him uttering a soft chuckle. Caught, and feeling as though he should explain himself, Stannis tried to think of the appropriate thing to say. A quick glance around him reminded that there was absolutely nothing appropriate about the situation, so he spoke frankly. “You’ve come to my bed, offering me your chastity and you can not even tolerate a simple embrace.”

She gasped, “Oh!” The offense taken was obvious and he wished he could eat the words already uttered. “  _Tolerate_?” She repeated. “I’ll show you what I’m capable of  _tolerating_ , my lord!”

Before he could attempt to soothe her injured ego, she’d lunged forward, laying herself against his side. Her arm reached around his chest, her leg lay over his, allowing her hot little core to cozy against his hip. Excitement over the unexpected rippled through him, and he kept quiet to hide whatever stutter he’d suffer because of it. Without any direction from his greater mind, his arm lowered and lay across her back, his hand clutching her side to keep her close. “Well, alright, then,” he responded awkwardly and then immediately closed his eyes and cursed to himself.

“Indeed!”

_Indeed_ , he repeated her exclamation, and again bit the inside of his cheek in the slightest amusement.

They lay together like that for a moment before his other hand rose of its own accord and rubbed small circles over her back, only the thin material of her shift acting as barrier between their flesh.

“What are you doing?” She inquired.

Seducing you.

Poorly.

“Warming you, my lady,” he responded quickly.

She sounded almost forlorn as she spoke into his chest, her voice vibrating through is own dressing gown. “You called me ‘dear’ before…”

“Did I?” He asked, smiling at her astute observation.

As his hand lowered, so too did her voice rise. “You did.”

“Hmm,” he responded to maintain the momentum, his palm moving from her lower back to her hip. So real in his hands--if this were a dream, he needn't wake from it. The rewards of sleep were far outweighing those of wake.

She shifted against him and he felt bold enough to whisper into the crown of her head. “Do you prefer,  _my dear_? Or perhaps,  _darling_?”

Sansa picked nervously at his dressing gown, her voice light as she deflected. “Terms of endearment are created to appease women, are they not?”

“I don’t care about appeasing women,” he responded, his fingertips dancing dangerously close to the curve of her backside.

Her eyes widened, fighting the urge to protest his handling. What was unacceptable hours before, was now ordained by God. “Is that so?” She asked, stalling.

“I’m now a married man,” he explained, letting his hand smooth over her. Touching his nose to hers, he closed his eyes and confessed, “I care only about  _my wife_.”

“Truly?” she breathed against his lips, her question so naive and vulnerable.

There was a beauty in her purity he’d not found anywhere else in all his years, in all the godforsaken places he’d been stationed. “Truly,” he promised, his fingers curling over as much plump flesh as he could grip.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she clutched his bare chest. Surprised by the feel of her palm uninhibited, he glanced down to see she’d pulled the neck down to expose part of his chest. His own hold on her tightened and she flirted, “You’re fresh.”

She flirted.

Stannis looked back to her eyes. Ladies like Sansa Stark--  _Baratheon now_ , didn’t flirt. She was above that sort of thing. Wasn’t she? He thought she was, anyway. He glanced back around his darkened room, seeing no witness to any games they may play, feeling the heat between her legs nestle against him. He closed his eyes and shifted his own hips against the blanket still covering him, letting his fingertips dig into her. “You inspire that quality in me,” he flirted back.

Silence followed, her heat turning as she looked away.

Was it shame?

He wouldn’t blame her if it was. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of. She was just so new to cravings like these. Truth be told, he was too. His late wife had never brought about his desire so severely. Stannis began to pry his fingers from her as he asked reluctantly, “Shall I stop?”

“Please don’t,” she protested, snuggling closer to him.

She’d been so nervous at first, and now she was practically begging him for his attention. Stannis started to wonder if perhaps she’d been sneaking some cups of her own throughout the course of their wedding. Again, he wouldn’t have faulted her. Matrimony always cost a woman more at the onset; only a fool would think otherwise. A gentleman would have realized her compromised state and peeled her willing body from his.

“May I kiss you?”

Blast it all to hell! What was he thinking? With that question, went any ounce of chivalry he’d previously prided himself on.  

Sansa lifted her face to look at his, her lips pouting up and waiting for his. Her words were soft and tempting. “If you want me,  _my_ lord. Have me. I am yours.”

Stannis stared down at her, bewildered. Had he heard her right? Was there a modicum of possession in her words, as there’d been in his thoughts?

_My lord._

_My._

Though her words were passive, the emphasis was anything but. She was scared, yes--as any virgin would be. But she was bold in her advances, regardless. From where did she pull such strength? Did she share his feelings, even in the slightest?

Before he could ponder her too long, her lips were on his. They were a uncertain whisper, soft and unimposing. It was obvious she hadn’t ever initiated such a gesture, though as their kiss progressed, that fact mattered less and less. Wrapped up in the taste of her tongue against his, he began bunching the fabric of her shift under the covers. He touched his palm to her naked thigh, sucking her bottom lip in the event she may protest.

She didn’t, only played her fingers in the sprinkle of hair on his chest, twisting and tilting her neck to better receive the affection he poured into her.

He had expected her to skin to be soft, but he hadn’t been prepared for exactly how soft it would be, protected from time and shielded from the elements. His ran his hand over the outline of her body, taking advantage of the opportunity to touch her in a way he hadn’t imagined so soon. Her hips were full and round, the dip of her waist perfect, the ridges of her ribcage shallow. Her stomach was mostly flat and as he ran his hand over it, he was tempted to let his fingers drop down to the thatch of fiery-red hair he’d yet to lay eyes on, but knew without doubt would be heavenly.

Sliding his tongue against hers, he thought better of it and forced his hand up to the soft mound of her breast, wrapping his fingers around it to give a gentle squeeze.

She groaned into his mouth and reached further into his gown to run her hands over him. He rather liked that. Not simply laying there, soaking up his affection to return none of it, Sansa may not have understood the way her body moved but she allowed it to anyway.

With the blankets still gathered at his waist, concealing an appendage so foreign to her, he decided to free himself of his dressing gown and pulled from her just long enough to do so. Her eyes sparkled up at him, her mouth wet and open, surprised by the sudden separation. Stannis caught his breath, staring down at her, watching her gaze rake over him. He knew she could see each bump and ridge of lean muscle, each scarred over wound, and blemish, and he would give her this chance to resist him.

She wouldn’t take it. Her own hands sought the hem of her gown, now rucked up below her breasts, and sat up long enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. Stannis’ gaze dropped down to the ample breasts before him, appreciating her pebbled nipples in the lamplight. Obviously growing self-conscious over such inspection, she started to shift in place, as if trying to find cover.

“Beautiful,” he admired.

Sansa bit her lip and laid her palm back on his chest. He appreciated that. Rather than backing down--away, she was touching him, trying to strengthen their fragile connection. He would return the favor. Stannis turned on his side, and grasped her breast again, this time paying closer attention to the hardened peaks that accented her so perfectly. His fingers gently plucked as he leaned in, kissing and nibbling her neck. She gasped and groaned, the hand on his chest finding his shoulder to hold onto.

Her responsiveness was intoxicating and he rolled over enough to grind his painful erection against her thigh, needing the momentary relief it gave. Her grip on his shoulder tightened and he glanced up at her, knowing she wouldn’t know what to expect--how hard a man could grow when so enticed. She peered down at him, her eyes turned black holes in the darkness. He ground himself against her leg again, watching her mouth open in awe as he took her nipple in his mouth and succled it.

Sansa sucked air through her teeth, and it only made him swirl his tongue around her delicious little peak more for it. So different from his past experiences in bed, the girl splayed out before him gave him a confidence he’d always lacked, simply by enjoying his touch so obviously--so thoroughly. With the unrelenting pulse of his cock down-right demanding to be inside her, he continued his steady grind against her and brought his free hand to her other breast, needing more.

He told himself to slow down, keep from scaring the girl with the passion she stirred in him. He was a grown man, not some savage boy without any self-restraint, pawing at a pretty lady. All good things came with time and tending. And he felt she deserved such  _tending_.

Kissing a trail back up to her lips, he cupped and fondled the new-found breast and abandoned the other to discover her other assets. She hadn’t noticed him release her, too caught up in experiencing the same pleasure all over again. He ghosted his fingers down her ribs, over the slight indent of her navel and the soft curve of her abdomen, to brush over the intimate curls below.

She sighed in his mouth as his fingers played over her seam, noting the dampness that already matted them. It had been a long time since Stannis had cause to touch a lady in that particular place, but he remembered well enough to question such sudden readiness. He pulled his lips from hers and brought his hand up, inspecting the glossy sheen that coated his fingertips. The subtle scent of lavender and pheromones filled his nostrils. “Sansa, what-”

“Lavender oil,” she answered quickly.

“What?” His brow furrowed. “  _Why_?”

She chewed her lip nervously before explaining, “Some ladies say it helps the man, to…” Too mortified to continue, she buried her face in his neck.

_Helps the man…_

Oh dear lord.

He wanted to take offense, unable to hide his scowl. What did it say about him that she felt he needed such aid? It was all he had in him not to pin her down and show her just how little assistance he needed in properly preparing her to take every last inch of him.

“Please don’t be cross with me,” she mumbled into his neck, still too humiliated to face him.

Stannis closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. They’d come so far together. She’d opened herself up and now she was curling into him, trying to hide. No. He couldn’t allow that. He’d had a marriage like that already before, and he wouldn’t accept that in this one--one he truly wanted.

Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her to him. “Of course I’m not cross,” he promised. He brushed hair from her forehead.“How could I be cross?” He asked, peppering her with kisses. “With a wife so thoughtful, so prepared?”

“Truly?” She asked, slowly lifting her head to peer at him, determining his sincerity.

Her caution was smart and endearing, and adorable, and, and, and--

He was falling in love with her.

More than lust, but in fact, actual love.

A lump grew in his throat over the revelation and he smiled through it, unable to speak, lest his cover be completely blown.  

She had no idea what was in his head, how could she? If she had, she wouldn’t have so naively asked, “Do you still want me?”

He wanted no one more.

Stannis hadn’t really wanted anyone else before he loved her, and now that he did, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere but right there.

In that bed.

In that moment.

With that woman--his dear, his  _darling_.

His fingers dropped back down to the oiled curls, rubbing and pressing over them at first. She groaned at the sensation and his mouth covered hers, wanting to catch each exclamation as he parted her folds and danced in the slippery path to her pearl. Sansa bucked against his hand when he found it and he worked only too feverishly to please. Breaking from her lips, he nuzzled and nipped her neck while she tensed in his arms. So aroused by her muted movements, Stannis took himself in hand to give a little squeeze while he maintained the pressure she flourished in.

Flesh slick with impending release sounded lush and wet beneath his digits and he could tell by the way she held her breath and arched her back she would soon realize the wonder of womanhood. Her cry was quiet and understated, but rampaged through him regardless.

She was ready now.

She had to be.

He needed her to be.

Stannis rolled over and up onto his knees, parting her legs as he did. She was still trying to catch her breath as he spread her open to him and leaned down, propping himself on his forearm. He didn’t rest his full weight on her, afraid he might crush her, but let her feel his solid frame against hers. His rock-hard shaft rest atop her tender flesh, still sensitive from such adoration.

She shivered beneath him, overstimulated, and he smiled warmly back at her, searching his brain for the appropriate thing to say. It would only intimidate her if he told her to prepare herself, that it would only hurt the first time, though hopefully due to the pleasure he’d just given her, not too horribly.

Oh god, he was losing his nerve.

Worry started to take him when he felt her lips on his chin. “It’s alright,” she whispered permission.

After everything he’d shown her, did she realize was she was now agreeing to?

She had to.

What else was there?

Before thought robbed him of feeling, he rubbed the head of his erection over her. He would show her that his cock could be gentle and sensual before it claimed her forever his. She shifted under him, smiling and mewling her approval of such a massage. Watching her closely, he lowered himself to press against her opening, the very tip of him venturing as far inside as he could before encountering resistance.

Her eyes snapped open at the pressure and he pecked kisses to the side of her face as he held himself still, not wanting to go too far too fast. “We can stop,” he whispered, not sure if he actually could. “If it’s too much.”

She shook her head, and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s alright,” she breathed, anxiety filling her voice.

“I’ll go slow,” he offered consolation.

She nodded against him and closed her eyes. Feeling a right ass for it, he persisted forward a little, imposing himself a bit before stopping to inspect her. Her features gave away her discomfort. There was still so much further to go, retreating now would only mean she’d suffer this all over again.

He could give her nothing but choice. “Let me know when you are ready for more,” he whispered, kissing the jaw she clenched so tightly.

Sansa nodded and drew a deep breath before she forced a brave face. “More.”

Stannis rest his forehead against hers and pressed himself deeper into her, this time getting several inches in before he met the next point of resistance and stopped. “Breathe, darling,” he coached her, smoothing the hair away from her face.

She took another deep breath and then kissed his cheek. “It’s alright--more.”

He moved slowly, sinking a couple more inches in when she brought her hand down to his backside and held it. “All, Stannis.”

He stared back into her eyes, uncertain she knew what she was asking for. Before he could decide whether or not to give her all of himself, she pulled him forward and he allowed himself to fall so completely inside of her.

Careful not to irritate the injury his love had caused, he resisted the call for friction. She was quiet under him and he knew her body was acclimating to his. Unable to bear the idea of causing her any pain, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. Though, they remained still, she accepted his kiss. Slowly, after a few seconds time, she began to return it, licking and sucking his lips as amorously as he did hers.

To his surprise, she lifted her knees and draped one leg over his hips. It changed their positioning and opened herself more for him. Completely bottomed out and wanting, Stannis lifted his hips a little and rocked into her, testing the waters, seeing what she could handle.

A quiet moan slipped her lips and he smiled proudly as he rocked into her again. She had pushed past the pain and found the pleasure again, her hands running down his back and clutching him close as he rolled his hips into her again and again.

Her legs wrapped around him, tightly pulling him down onto her. At first, he didn’t understand why she would restrict his movement so, but then noticed he little yelp of excitement and the flex of her intimate muscles when his pelvis crushed against her--rhythmically.

That had him grinning, and he picked up the pace, no longer worried for the way he invaded her, but instead focused on bringing her to end before he reached his own. The wait was not long, for her back arched under him and she bit his bicep through the shout her second orgasm.

He loved this woman.

Bucking with reckless abandon, he wasn’t far behind her, gripping her hips as he filled her so completely with his seed, coughing his exasperation over her shoulder into the pillows that surrounded them. His heart felt as though it might burst from his chest, the pounding between his ears so intense, the stars behind his eyes so bright.

They both lay there, completely exhausted and wrecked, all strength sapped from them. The hand that had rested on his back started to move, petting him gently. He sighed into the pillow again, trying to rally the fortitude necessary to pry himself off of her. So much younger, and filled with more energy and vigor, she turned her head on her pillow and nuzzled into his neck, kissing him as she whispered, “You’re heavy.”

“Apologies,” he mumbled and rolled off her.

He looked down at the mess they’d made together and forced himself to stand and seek out the wash basin. She hissed a little on the bed behind him and a pang of guilt struck him. He poured the cool water over one of the washrags and rung the excess from it.

No longer so modest, he crossed his room nude, and touched the damp cloth to her womanhood. “Here, it will help.”

Her fingers brushed over his as she held it to herself. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking away. Inhibition had returned to her, and she began to rise up.

His hand shot out, catching her arm. “Don’t go.”

She glanced back at him.

“If you don’t want to, that is.” He cleared his throat, trying not to sound as excitable.

“But my chamber?” She asked, more confused than resistant.

“Will be there tomorrow.” Stannis fluffed some pillows beside himself. “You are welcome in my chambers.”

Sansa glanced down at his naked form and then hid her smile.

“For more than that.” He hid a smirk of his own.

“For sleep?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Is that done?”

He reached for her, pulling her down next to him. “It can be.” Stannis tugged the covers up over them and wrapped an arm around her.

“What will the servants say?” She asked.

Not wanting to think about it, he yawned and closed his eyes. “Plenty of things I shouldn’t concern myself with.”

A few seconds passed in silence and then she asked, “Stannis?”

His eyes opened, suddenly insecure. This was where she left him, wasn’t it? For any one of the very valid reasons she may have had. His subconscious tightened his grip around her. He held his own breath as he asked, “Yes?”

“Good night.”

Releasing the air caught in his lungs, he answered, “Good night, darling.”

_I love you._

 

 


	3. Waking A Woman

The morning light shining through a crack in the dark navy blue drapes gently woke Sansa from her slumber. Not since before her parents had passed, had she ever slept so soundly through the night. Finally feeling secure in her surroundings and the man she was meant to share them with, she allowed herself the respite she’d been denying herself since Winterfell.

Shifting a little in the bed, she felt her naked body slide against her gown. It had rucked up in the night and her bare thighs rubbed against the sheets. It had happened countless times in her life, and yet it felt different now. Sansa took a deep breath, her nipples pebbled in the morning chill, stood hard against the material of her gown. Suddenly so much more aware of her body than she’d been the day before, a shy smile dimpled her cheeks.

Regardless of Margaery’s experienced guidance prior to the exchange of vows, Sansa hadn’t been prepared for all aspects of her wifely duties. Contrary to expectation, her anxiety hadn’t been due to the pain that came with the loss of her purity. In fact, judging by how minimal the injury had been, she’d braced herself quite well for that.

It was the overwhelming emotion of it all. There was no readying herself for all the feelings that accompanied their intimate act. What was meant to be a duty--a chore--carried out without complacency, had been something so surreal in practical application.

It was all nothing short of  _pagan_. What he had wanted… What she had allowed… What they had done!

Their bodies moved of their own volition in a primitive dance that cared nothing for the sophistication and grace of any other step she’d ever been taught since before coming out in society. He held her close, their naked forms rubbing and sliding against each other, the covers obscuring their view. Sansa smiled then in the excitement of such tease, his palm riding up her thigh. She felt much like a naughty child sneaking biscuits out of Septa’s jar. Her offense great enough to turn heads in disapproval, but not so far as to cross the line into criminal. Not yet then, anyway.  

If she thought his body was warm, his mouth was hot. She’d never imagined his kisses would extend past her lips. When they had, gone was the guilty feeling of scandal, replaced by the surprise of her body’s innate response. Stannis had taken her beyond flirt and play to something deeper. Their bodies flexed, sweat beading between them. The scent of her arousal surrounded them while the sound of their rhythmic motion filled the air.

Suddenly, Sansa was overcome with it all and began to fall from the sky, though she’d not left her bed. Clinging tightly to Stannis, she cried out against the sensation, fighting it at first. It was too strong and she was left with no choice but to surrender, allow it to take her over.

Stannis somehow knew. He had to have. The way he held her close to him, his lips curling into a deep smile against her cheek and neck as he drove himself harder and faster inside--testing what she knew her body could accommodate. Yes, he was aware. When she heard him groan and gasp for breath, she knew that he too must have given into whatever it was that possessed them.

It was in that vulnerable moment when she looked most unladylike, that she felt more womanly than she had since she'd received her courses and was enlightened as to her purpose in life. It was startling how suddenly and severely her heart beat for someone other than she. In his late night embrace, everything felt all so…  _natural_.

Was it always like that? Judging by the martyred look on Lady Merryweather’s face whenever her husband returned home, Sansa very greatly doubted that. It must have had do with the man. With Stannis.

Were all men like he? Warm and gentle in the privacy of lamplight and linen.

Sansa found that hard to believe.

She knew all too well the leering and snickering lords were wont to do when clustered together, standing off in the corners of parties. The way their gaze lingered on her, falling to her figure. Their words whispered behind their libations always made her feel as if they knew something she didn’t, about her own body. Perhaps they did, men being so much more experienced in relations than any respectable woman ever dare. Still, it was vulgar of them to flaunt that fact.

They were nothing at all like her husband behind closed doors, she was sure of it. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, Sansa started to feel quite fortunate in her match.

She stilled then, replaying her last thought,  _Husband._ Unable to stop herself, she whispered it low under her breath, “Husband.” It was odd to even think the word, let alone hear it aloud, her own lips moving to speak it.

And he was beside her now…with no one around to chaperone them…in a state of undress. What would have been disgraceful yesterday was somehow meant to feel normal today. Unnerved by it all, Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a stray giggle. She was sure the silent amusement that quivered through her would stir him from his sleep. When she felt no movement beside her, she dared crack one eye open to spy whether or not he was still asleep or if he had shifted to sit upright, posed to judge her the silliest girl ever created.

He hadn’t stirred. Instead, a motionless lump of blankets and pillows lay beside her, and she wondered how many layers covered the man that lay beneath them. Her arm reached out, hovering above the linen, gaining the courage to land on the solid form concealed within. Closing her eyes again, she cringed as she let her hand drop. Wincing at the point of impact, her eyes snapped open to the discovery.

There was no one beneath the covers. No husband beside her in bed. No Stannis. Ripping the blankets back, Sansa stared at the bare mattress. An emptiness gripped her as she glanced frantically about the room. He had left.

The slight shift in position called her attention to the tenderness of her womanhood.  

Her gaze dropped to her lap. Timidly, she lifted the covers further back. She held her breath as she slid her nightgown up over her thighs to inspect the damage done to her. More than a little surprised to see no wound, she shifted slightly, curious as to how much discomfort the movement would produce. It had only been slight.

She smiled to herself, remembering the scent of Stannis’ spiced soap as she burrowed her face in his neck, clinging to him with all her might, fighting his ever-so patient invasion. Her purpose had been served. She had been shown what her body was capable of--what it was meant for--and it changed everything. Sansa was a woman now, despite the lack of any visible evidence to that fact--aside from soiled linens. And she was a woman left alone.

Sadness filled her, threatening tears. Mother had warned her that melodramatics often made women intolerable, and that controlling that particular impulse often rendered more desirable results. Men often woke before women, hunting and other male-driven activities often requiring the early hours of the morning. She would stop this childish nonsense and wake for the day. Perhaps she might see her new husband to break his fast, back from some lordly duty.

It was impertinent for her to immediately assume abandonment.

She rose quickly after that, barely touching toes to cold stone before she was half in her skirts. A fresh cloth and basin had been left for her and Sansa smiled at her husband’s kindness, or her maid’s attentiveness. Thoroughly scrubbing herself clean before she allowed the dress be laced, Sansa asked, “Shall I expect Lord Baratheon at breakfast?”

“No, ma’am,” was the brisk reply as the woman pinned her hair up. Beneath the cap, the woman--older than she, yet still youthful enough to be noticed--had sunkissed hair.

A terrible thought sank into Sansa’s bones as she identified their similar trait. Men often had their way with the staff on hand to quickly sate a need too sinful to be met by a wife. It was difficult to see Stannis as one of those men, but she’d been advised that it was the way of things and to not pay the practice much mind. In truth, whenever musing on the subject of marriage, she had thought it might be a relief to have a husband distracted from time to time.

That was before...

Her fingers played with the beading on the front of her bodice as she allowed her mind to wander. Would Stannis handle this woman the same as he had her? Or would he treat her differently? She didn’t know what would be better or worse, finding any ounce of his attention spent on anyone else such a violation, despite society’s expectations.

“That will be all,” Sansa growled.

The woman’s eyes widened as she looked up at her, startled by her sudden change in mood. “Ma’am?”

Reaching for her hand, she pushed it away. “Leave me. Do not return.”

When the woman didn’t move, only stood in shock, Sansa turned for the door. “On your way out, please alert Davos to my need for a new lady’s maid.”

Refusing to look back, to rethink her decision, Sansa sought the dining room. Passing by the breakfast buffet, she took her seat opposite the head of the table. Stannis’ chair was empty, no place setting to indicate his impending arrival. Sansa glanced around her, only then noticing all the vacant place settings.

Most people had gone home the night of their wedding, though some who had travelled far to witness the nuptials had lodged there the night before. Where were they? Within minutes of wondering, a server curtseyed to her before offering her a hard boiled egg, a strip of bacon, and a piece lightly buttered toast.

The young fair-haired girl was quite visibly anxious to be serving the new lady of the house. Sansa offered her a warm smile, finding her much less perturbing than she had the lady’s maid she pardoned from employ. “What has become of our party? And Lord Baratheon? Has he gone to hunt with all the men this morning?”

Confusion wrinkled the girl’s brow as she stared back at her. “No, Ma’am...I thought you knew…”

Sansa felt her insides tumble. What did this girl know that she did not? Mind racing, she considered his empty side of the bed… Had he not found her pleasing?

No. That couldn’t be it. He had asked her to remain with him, despite whatever opinion others may have formed over it. He enjoyed her company, she was sure of it.

Why then did he leave? What information had been kept from her?

There was a steel to her voice that rendered it hardly recognizable at first as she ordered, “Enlighten me.”

The girl clutched the silver tray to herself. “Your guests left at first light.”

“And why would they do that?” Before she had the opportunity to bid them a proper adeu.

“They left after Lord Baratheon’s announcement, ma’am.” She took a subconscious step backwards. Whether it was her station that intimidated the girl so, or her determined demeanor, she couldn’t be sure, caring only about answers.

Loathing to admit she was not apprised to what everyone under her roof seemed to be, Sansa kept her question to one tightly clipped word, “Announcement?”

Glancing around the room before she dared to speak her answer aloud, the girl lowered her voice. “My lord thanked everyone’s attendance but explained that he was called to duty overseas and that he must end the festivities early so that he may travel--  _alone_.”

Ashamed that she wasn’t aware, and horrified to believe that she truly was being abandoned, Sansa forced a smile on her face to mask. “Of course. He had explained that we would need to excuse our guests earlier than planned due to his-” She swallowed the growing lump in her throat as she finished, “Travel.” Sansa blinked a few times to stop the tears from escaping her eyes, cursing the emotion that refused to be tamed. “Though, I believe he isn’t due to depart until…” She trailed off, waiting for the girl to finish for her.

“Within the hour, Ma’am.”

Within the hour!

It was utterly preposterous to think that he was required to leave within the hour. Men of Stannis’ office were called to duty, that much was true. They were also, however, afforded a few days notice to put their affairs in order before they left their estates in the hands of their ladies and trusted staff. This rushed exit had been a choice on his part, plain and simple. An escape from the doe-eyed bride and all the regrets she brought him the morning after.

He didn’t seem regretful while he held himself inside her, awaiting her word to surround himself with her further. No. He certainly wouldn’t be repenting that. He definitely wouldn’t bemoan the money paid him upon her signature of their marriage license either. Another stray tear teetered on her eyelid as she swore he would have appreciated her companionship--if he’d only stay put long enough to enjoy the benefit of it.

Sansa rallied her strength and asked, “And where is he presently?”

“My lord is in his study, gathering his necessities, my lady.” It was Davos’ voice behind her that answered.

Wasting no time with greetings, Sansa set her fork down a rose. “Very well,” she said to no one in particular. She would take the time to meet Davos later, during one of the many days she was left alone with him while Stannis sailed a sea to avoid her.

Storming across the marble floor, wearing the placid smile of propriety, taught to her as early as age three, Sansa set off to find her husband. The man in question had his head down, packing various items in a leather satchel, when she pushed the door to his private room open. At the quiet intrusion, he glanced up and then ducked his head back down to hide any reaction she might have spied. “Lady Sansa,” he acknowledged down into his bag.

Lady Sansa? How quickly things had turned in the witching hours between dusk and dawn.

Taking a deep breath to settle her stomach, Sansa fought the urge to beg him tell her what she had done to warrant such a change in his affection. It would have been dramatic and a man like Stannis would have loathed such hysterical energy brandied about in his face. She had told herself that was the case earlier and she needed to stay the course.

Lords left their ladies all the time. The only real oddity to the situation was the attachment she’d so suddenly grown for him. “Lord Baratheon,” she replied, her tone careful.

“Stannis,” he corrected, shuffling more papers from his desk and into his bag. “Surely, we can dispense with such formalities? I’d prefer it.”

What was his game? He addressed her properly, then declined to look at her as he offered a degree of intimacy he was in the process of ripping from her altogether. He was infuriating and her tongue quipped before she could catch it. “It was my impression that you preferred  _darling_.”

His head shot up, his brows furrowing as he inspected her closely. Lifting her chin to better hold his gaze, she refused to back down. Sansa would not allow herself to become a sobbing mess seeking a fainting couch. It would have been wise to feign indifference, though she’d never in her years perfected such a facade. Her father’s voice in her head told her not to mince her words, to get to the point. “I heard you are leaving.”

“Mm,” he admitted. Lifting the bag out of his chair, he came around from behind his desk. “I am bound by my honor to answer the call of duty. Apologies for how abrupt this may seem, but I assure you, it needn’t disrupt your schedule any.”

“Disrupt my schedule…?” Sansa all but gasped out the words in disbelief.

He nodded easily. “Of course. The staff are well equipped to assist you in whatever functions you’d like to hold at the estate during my absence. I understand the importance of social calling to ladies, and the nature of my career shall not hinder you.”

Words poured from his mouth, so cold and practical. Sansa took a step towards him, watching his eyes drop down to recognize the distance between them shortening. Though he didn’t move, he appeared ready to bolt at the next given opportunity.

He would not respond to her disappointment, of that she felt certain. She needed to change tactics to help him see. Everything had become so sterile, but it hadn’t always been. They had laughed and smiled together, flirting in each other’s ears. If only she could bring them back to that. Taking a risk, she smiled as she asked, “You’re concerned for my  _calendar?_ ”

He said nothing, looking suddenly so out of place in his own home.

Unsure how best to manage his discomfort, she attempted to tease as she took yet another step forward. “One might say that ending a wedding celebration early and evicting a house full of guests doesn’t inspire much favor in society.”

“Right,” he agreed, dropping his head in shame. “I shall endeavor to be better.”

Her ribbing had incurred the opposite of the desired effect. Words were failing them, all twisted, their meanings confused. As a last resort, Sansa relied on action to speak to her feelings. With no little amount of courage mustered, she placed a palm on his chest.

Melting at the feel of it hard and warm, rising and falling beneath her hand, Sansa’s lips parted in pleasure over the sensation and familiarity. Stannis’ rough hand covered hers, stalling for only a fraction of a second before it peeled hers away. His voice was rough as he said, “That’s not necessary.”

“Necessary?” She asked bewildered, feeling the chill of such rejection.

He shook his head, as if deciding not to bother with explanation, and then turned away from her. She stumbled to find the words to match her heart’s protest, staring at the back of him as he took long strides for the door. He didn’t bother look back, his words hurried as he said, “I’ll send word of when to expect my return, once I’ve been briefed.”  The sound of the door clicking shut behind him served as harsh punctuation to a statement so final.

Sansa stood in the center of the room, beside herself--both literally and figuratively. He didn’t want her. There was no making that fact any clearer. How could she be so fooled as to think he desired anything more than the inheritance that resulted from their vows? It had, after all, been his soul reason for arranging their match in the first place.

Hugging her arms tight against her chest, Sansa faced the crushing realization that Margaery had been devastatingly correct in her assertion that no one was exempt from the business of matrimony.  

 

 

 


	4. Seven Months

The captain called for harbor and the steady methodical movements of a working ship turned to frenzied flurry. Boys the ocean had shaped into young men, were anxious to reach land and all the family it offered. Older, more seasoned men quickened their step to reach the rest a bed not as likely to eject them on the crest of a harsh wave would give.

Stannis stood stuck in the middle between his heart and his head. It was a conflict he’d grown accustomed to over the past seven months at sea, and always left him feeling as though he were tiptoeing between enemy lines, regardless of whichever way he was leaning.

Men whispered as he passed by. “Where’s he going? Why doesn’t he look happy?” Said one.

“About to face the Missus’,” said another.

“If that’s how he choose to do it! Could always do facin’ the back of er head!” The hearty moronic laugh filled Stannis’ ears.

About to whirl on the man, he was saved the effort when he heard the other explain, “Shut up, ya right git! Show some respect to yer admiral. Man left ‘is wife day after the nuptials. She’s gotta have the hate in ‘er for that.”

“At least he got ‘is night,” the man bellowed. An obnoxious laugh followed.

It was cut short--mid-chuckle--at the end of Stannis’ punishing fist. A particularly loose tooth fell out and clinked on the floor. The deck stilled, every man halting his work to stare at the spectacle before them. Stannis glanced around, refusing to feel embarrassed. Sansa was his wife and no man but he could make even the faintest reference to her indecency.

The more reasonable man of the two must have seen the rage that flushed Stannis’ cheeks and pin pricked the pupils of his eyes before flexing every muscle tightly under his uniform, because he submitted instantly. “He’s green, sir. He aint ever been away from home before. Too taken with excitement. Doesn’t know what he’s sayin’, sir.”

Stannis wanted to sock him again, the power raging through his veins, begging he keep using it. They had an audience, however, and he wasn’t a cruel man. He could tell as easy as anyone, once was enough. Turning to the abused man in question, he asked, “And what say you?”

He’d been holding his mouth, as if it would help him any. Looking around to see all the eyes on them, he cleared his throat and straightened his posture. “I say, Sir. I say I need eat more oranges. Spit that tooth out too easy, I did.”

Stannis stilled, not entirely sure how to take the response. Could he be jesting?  

His friend jumped in quickly, plastering an ear-to-ear grin on his mug and exclaiming, “That’s right! Should be thanking Admiral, you should! Savin’ your scurvied ass a trip to the barber.”

Stannis glanced between the men, relaxing his stance. Too cautious to smile in return, he eyed the man he’d corrected.

A slow smile spread under the swelling, a cracked and blistered hand came out to clasp his. “Florent, sir. Alester Florent.”

Reluctantly, Stannis accepted his arm. Though he knew who Alester was, from spending many months at sea with the man, he wasn’t surprised by the introduction. Hardly a word had passed between them in all that time in close quarters, their stations not encouraging it. In truth, it was surprising that the man would be so bold at all as to comment on Stannis’ personal life in the first place, though the sea had been known to blur the lines of rank. The promise of land ahead only added to that effect. Florent could be forgiven easily enough, too caught up in high spirits.

“Best get yourself to the main deck,” Stannis said, gruffly. “Don’t want to miss your chance to touch foot to land again.” As if the ship would have taken off so quickly. Vessels like these took time to unload and pack up. It would be docked for at least a couple of days before it set sail again.

Both men nodded agreement and excused themselves. Stannis straightened his coat, finding himself only slightly ruffled at the minor altercation. The hustle and bustle of a ship docking had carried on, and once again Stannis stood alone in the excitement, wondering whether or not he was prepared to face his wife.

Part of him longed to, further falling for her as he watched her sleep beside him. He smirked to himself at how sated she looked, laying there bundled beneath the covers, her leg hooked carelessly over his. He pushed himself up to sitting and leaned back against the headboard, testing how heavily she slept. Her eyes never cracked open, though she felt the absence of his warmth and sought it out, wrapping her arms around him to nuzzle against his thigh.

Unable to resist the urge, he stroked her hair. Smoothing the locks away from her face, he let them splay across the pillow behind her in long tendrils. The contrast between ivory flesh and fiery tresses was sharp, the whole picture so striking as to rouse his interest all over again. Stannis pressed a hand over himself as he considered waking her to dispel any notion her innocent mind may have that such activities need only occur after dark. His gaze followed the curve of her hip under the covers, memories of the night before overcoming him. She was lush and supple, soft and accommodating. She lacked a whore’s confidence, but she was neither so fraught with anxiety that she was frozen in fear. Hell, if she didn’t give herself over to him completely, despite her inexperience.

His smirk turned full, unabashed grin as he decided that he would control himself. She was brave enough on their wedding night, taking all he had to offer with no prior knowledge of the relations between man and wife. Spending his career on a ship, surrounded by men, afforded him plenty of occasions for unintentional observation. He knew most men had been blessed with less and that any woman that opened herself to him would suffer the burden of his abundance. He brushed another wisp of hair back behind her ear as he silently promised her the time to rest and heal before he entertained the idea of taking her again.

It was then that the thought struck, chilling him as surely as an ice bath thrown over his head,  _Again_. There wouldn’t be an again… Not for a long time, a year at least, possibly longer. All because he was ‘a patient man.’ How he cursed himself that proclamation!

As if reading his thoughts in her sleep, Sansa shifted in the bed before rolling over. Away from him. She sighed into her pillow and he felt abandoned for it. It was absurd for him to feel as such, but he could hardly stop the feeling once it had set in. He rose from the bed and paced around it a few times, gazing down at her.

He told himself that what he’d said before was no longer of consequence. She had given herself to him and he had certainly taken her. They could continue on, each night spent in his bed, waking every morning together. It wasn’t conventional, but that hardly mattered. No man in his right might would hold it against him. They need only look at her to understand the enchantment she unknowingly held him with.

Glancing over at the food platter on his wardrobe, Stannis remembered the way he discovered her in his chambers. The determination in her words as she said,  _I understand the duty of a wife, my lord._

Duty. That’s what drew her to his room. Nothing more. Nothing except perhaps for fear of vows questioned if not consummated. He’d been so driven by lust, his mouth watering with thirst for her as she lay in his bed, offering herself up to him. Not a fortnight prior, he would have thought himself mad to even consider such a possibility. Yet there she was, touting her belief in the sanctity of marriage and allowing a husband passage.

Of course he allowed himself be so easily convinced that her interest may be anything more than what it was, taking each moan and gasp for proof of shared feelings. He knew better than that. Congress gave couples warm feelings--temporarily. Her affection for him would fade shortly after waking as she remembered how little she truly felt for him.

Only an imbecile would take her sense of honor and duty for love returned, and only an imbecile would fall in love with a woman who had only been meant as a means to an end. He’d be nothing short of brutish if he insisted on her continued attentions. His brows furrowed in consternation, no, he wouldn’t do that to her. Or himself. He was a grown man, capable of controlling his impulses and infatuations. More than that, Stannis was an honorable man, and he would prove that fact to her by making good on his word. He would give her the year to grow comfortable with him, and then they would produce heirs as agreed. If his interest continued, then he’d know it to be true.  

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention back to her unconscious form. The blanket slid down further exposing her breast, concealed only by the thin gossamer material of her night rail. The morning chill in the air hardened her nipple into a proud peak fighting against her gown. Two large steps had him across the room, about to descend on the eager appendage and cover it it with his mouth--fabric be damned. A quiet sigh, passed over her sleeping lips, stopped him, hovering above her. Dragging his gaze up to her unsuspecting face, he knew he needed reign himself in.

This was torture.

Knowing what it could be like between them, and choosing not to pursue it. It was then that the rising sun, peeking through a part in the curtains, shone on one of the golden buttons decorating his uniform.

Stannis eyed the high ranking embroidery, accenting each bend and line of his coat, sparkling in golden ropes. They had been given at first because of his family, and earned early after. Each time he donned the coat he did his best to live up to what it symbolized, honor and valor. A strict sense of--  _duty._  

That was it!

He would survive this year yet. Even if the only way to do so was to send himself from her side. Surely, his departure couldn’t be considered cowardly if it was in service of the crown. Sansa would understand more than anyone the importance of fulfilling one’s duty.

It was what was best for them both. She would settle herself into his home and make her peace with their marriage, and perhaps develop true feelings for him. Feelings that extended past the responsibility of their situation, and the euphoria of their shared carnal knowledge. In turn, he would survive his own promised patience by spending it on the open sea where he’d have no other choice.

He’d scaresly given thought to how he’d be received upon his return before he was bustling himself out of his room and away from the nymph in his bed. Davos had been surprised by Stannis’ demand that they send all the guests away and that he be packed and ready to leave as soon as was humanly possible. It was a tall order, but Stannis could trust Davos to manage it. He need only worry about packing away his private documents.

It was dishonest to say that he’d been called to duty, and he felt poorly for it, but he knew once he met his superior ranking officers in town, he could make his lie true enough. For the past two tours, they’d been angling to call him to water, though hadn’t pressed him when he refused to bite. Serving himself up to them so easily would keep them pleased for quite some time.

Men moved in a large crowd towards the exits, rushing and bumping into him as they scanned the dock for their loved ones. The crowd gathered on land was larger than the crowd of men on the ship, filled with proud fathers and mothers, siblings and wives. And so many children, mostly infants.

Stannis glanced around him, smirking. His men had been busy on their long leave. There were always babies awaiting their return, though the most always came with the longer tours. This one had only been seven months--not the four months he’d originally planned, but still not the nine that was requisite for this degree of populace.

The first man to step foot on land had a child thrust in his arms, his wife reaching for him to squish the babe between them. It had been quite the spectacle and Stannis wondered if Sansa would be as boisterous in her welcome as this lady had been, or if she’d be simmering with renewed outrage at his presence. Worse yet, what if she hadn’t come to greet him at all?

A sick sinking feeling in his stomach had him glancing nervously around for her. By the second time he scanned the crowd he was able to see Davos stood back by a carriage. Stannis’ feet carried him further toward the gangplank as he looked to either side of his trusted manservant. She was nowhere to be seen.

His grip on his satchel tightened as he bottled his frustration. She was petty if she thought to deny him a welcome as retribution for his hasty escape. If anything, she should be thanking him. After all, he’d saved her the unnecessary pageantry of a obliged affection. Did she feel that exempt her from all appropriate displays? Society still had expectations.

Stannis hadn’t meant for her to happen upon him as he was leaving. When she had, he said what he could to distance himself from her. He would force himself to stay the course, lest he dishonor them both and let his lust break him before the year was up. It hadn’t been meant to hurt her, though if she had been even the slightest bit affected by his words, it would have given him some hope that she would one day warm to him--truly. Unfortunately, she seemed less disquieted by the prospect of being on her own and more so over the fact that he’d sent all her guests away.

Had a room filled with strangers meant more to her than he?

It hurt to feel she had no use for him. More than it would have a mere twenty-four hours prior. When she placed her hand on his chest, he pulled it away, allowing her the freedom of honesty while they were alone.

Surely, she could see the importance of her presence with so many onlookers curious to see the admiral and his new bride. Sansa hadn’t struck him as dim-witted. She knew well what she was doing to him, and with each step further onto land and toward Davos and his carriage, Stannis felt a righteous fury raise up in his insides. Gone was the anxiety of their awkward reunion.

If she could so easily wound him, he had a few choice words to fill her ears with. Davos’ broad smile filled his vision as he approached, still vibrating in rage. “Welcome home, my lord!”

“Davos,” he acknowledged in more of a growl than he meant.

“Is he here?” A soft familiar voice sounded through the window.

Davos reached for Stannis’ satchel, answering over his shoulder. “Yes, my lady. You may wish to come out now.”

The look in Davos’ eye as he watched Stannis’s anger drain, hinted that he knew all too well what Stannis had been thinking, and just exactly how he felt about it. Shock encouraged his silence as he wondered why she hadn’t been standing out waiting for him, waving to him as he docked? Was she too good to leave her cushioned seat in the carriage?

The latch clicked and the door swung open. Immediately his view was obscured by a parasol, seeing only a gloved hand reach out for him to hold and a petite boot land on each step leading to ground. He hadn’t seen her yet, but just the warm feel of her hand so small and feminine in his stirred a hunger he’d been ignoring.

He bit the inside of his cheek reminding himself he was no pubescent boy lacking self-respect. Besides, this woman didn’t share his heart, and while she hadn’t jilted him at his return, she couldn’t be bothered to greet him properly. She cared more for the state of marriage, than she did for marriage to him.

Both feet on the ground, she lifted the parasol to reveal a stunning set of blue sapphire eyes, a warm welcoming smile, ample bosom tucked attractively in her spencer jacket, and a great round belly.

His eyes threatened to jump from their sockets, his heart galloping in his chest at the sight. Eyeing the prominent pregnancy before him, Stannis’ hand tightened on hers to keep him steady.

“I must look quite shocking to you.” Her hand came down to rest on the bulge. “Though, I confess, I’ve had some time to get used to it, myself.”

Only then did he tear his eyes from her pregnancy to look again upon her face. Her cheeks had flushed with embarrassment as she explained, “The doctor says it will grow larger still, if you can believe it. He says he believes it will only be another month’s time, but we know better.” She bit her bottom lip, her eyes looking up at his, so large and tempting. “Don’t we?”

Another man would have questioned.

Another man would have denied.

This child was his. He knew it with every atom of his being. Logic and reason only adding to his convictions. If she’d lain with another man after him, the pregnancy wouldn’t have been as far along as she clearly was. After the night they shared, the knowledge he’d gained of her body, he knew she couldn’t have given herself to another before him.

“We do,” he agreed in a choked voice.

She looked out at the crowd, only then seeming to notice how large it was. Moving his hand to her belly, she promised, “We’re glad to see you home, husband.”

Movement, ever so faint, fluttered under his palm and he felt uneasy on his feet. Clenching his teeth, he reminded himself that war had shown him much more to faint over, and he hadn’t given in then, he wouldn’t over this miracle either. After all, Florent was out there somewhere, possibly watching the reception his admiral was receiving. Swooning would be most undignified by any man, let alone one of his station.

Davos moved around him, loading his footlocker and various other cases onto the carriage. Stannis helped Sansa step back into the carriage and settled himself across from her because he didn’t think he had the mettle to sit beside her at the moment. Soft floral scents filled the cabin, alerting his body to the woman before him--his woman. No matter what their feelings were for one another, she carried his seed, nurtured it and willed it to blossom inside her. He claimed her on their wedding night and every pair of eyes that landed on her burgeoning bump knew it.

Pride allowed a small smirk to creep across his lips. The carriage took off and he stared into the bright blue eyes that promised him an heir. Her mouth moved and he had to focus to hear her say, “You must be exhausted.”

“Mm,” he agreed.

“I had the servants air out your chamber and refresh the linens upon word of your return. They were heating the waters to draw you a bath before we left.” She explained, her smile never diminishing.

How thoughtful of her. He could do with a bath, and had been planning to order one himself. It was good to see her suddenly so attentive to his needs.

She raised her hand as if in solemn oath. “And I swear I will not take offense if I shan’t see you again by week’s end.”

Week’s end? That was two days away. His brows furrowed as he wondered what she was on about. “Week’s end? I’ve only just returned, why wouldn’t I be present in the next couple of days?”

Sansa sighed lightly, then offered him some degree of patience. “I understand it’s the way of military men.”

Now that was curious. “Is it?” He asked, cocking his head at her.

Nodding seriously, she explained. “Father was always sequestered in his rooms for the first few days after he’d returned from mission. Mother always said he needed the time to acclimate himself to civilian life again, and she’d spend the majority of the time with him, save for the instances we children needed her.”

Stannis blinked back at her, making sense of her reasoning. Realization suddenly dawned on him, and hilarity tickled at his cheeks, threatening laughter.

“What is it?” She asked, clearly noticing his poorly concealed amusement.

“Days, you say?” He asked, his eyes alight. “Alone in his chambers, with only his good lady wife to keep him company…”

Sansa gasped suddenly. “No!”

Chuckling, he asked, “How long after your father’s returns were you blessed with each sibling?”

Completely scandalized by it, Sansa’s face turned such a deep crimson that it grew almost darker than her copper locks. “That’s awful! And all this time, I believed her to be tending to him.”

“It sounds as though she was,” Stannis said before he thought better of it.

One glance to her horrified expression had him wishing he could swallow the words down before they’d ever been uttered. Silence filled the cabin as she stared out the window and held her hands together over her belly. Did she think he’d expect the same from her? Not that he would have declined the offer, but he certainly hadn’t supposed it. Especially not now in her condition, which was a shame really, because he’d often wondered what a pregnant woman looked like nude. Noting how her bosom had seemed to grow in his absence, made him want to divest her of her clothing so he could catalogue every change. He’d spent many nights at sea, reliving their encounter and he felt he could map her body perfectly.

It was then that the awful reality of the situation had finally occurred to him. Lady Sansa Stark had agreed to marry him in order to offer herself security and release the inheritance owed him. She’d only been amiable to relations for the purpose of producing an heir at his request. He had said that he’d desire as many as she’d allow him, but what if one was all she had a mind to? Had she now felt satisfied that she’d done her duty by him? It wasn’t as if she’d yet fallen in love with him. What other hold would he have on her?

Stannis gulped back the rising panic in his throat as he wondered if he had experienced his first and last time with her all in one on that night seven long months ago. She said that she’d made his room up for him, with no mention of herself. When he explained the mystery of her father’s convalescence, she hadn’t exactly appeared eager to offer him the same degree of care.

The urge to stop the carriage and run back to the dock struck him and he willed it away, telling himself he would stay for the child. He would see it birthed safely before he agreed to set sail again. The time in between would be difficult, but he would see things through.       

 

 

 


	5. Homecoming

Sansa had only seen her husband in the flesh a handful of times: the night he’d proposed, the day he presented himself to Olenna Tyrell--Margaery’s grandmother charged with seeing to Sansa’s coming out, the morning he arrived with his attorney to discuss the particulars of their arrangement, and the night of their wedding. The hours passed during that last encounter had easily swallowed the rest of the occasions she’d been afforded to study him. 

With how little she’d spied him and how long since, her mind had begun to smudge the finer details of her memories. At times, he was nothing more than a beautiful dream to her, their time together so surreal. The child growing in her belly and the house around her, became evidence she clung to in order to prove that she’d not fantasized herself into a state of lunacy. 

Were it not for his portrait hung proudly in one of the reading rooms--she later learned had been his mother’s private library, she worried she might not recognize him upon his return. Perhaps she’d mistake him for a stranger instead. 

There would be no surviving the mortification...

Wrought with anxiety, she sat tucked away in the carriage, listening to the shrieks and shrills of homecoming. The sudden worry that he might not have survived his journey gripped the pit of her stomach and forced her baby’s ire, peddling it’s feet all over her insides in retaliation for daring such a thought. Stilling under the assault, she rubbed her belly and drew deep breaths, reminding herself that Stannis had been known for his campaigns and that he was an officer--surely his life was worth many of his crew men's. It was their duty to see him safe! 

Fretting over whether or not Stannis was alive to meet her at the dock, she hadn’t heard him approach, not until Davos called to her. Sansa drew another deep breath and forced the anxiety far enough away to produce a rather convincing smile to offer him. It was the least she could do really, knowing not what else she could give a man she hardly knew and had married for the business of it. 

And that kiss… The one that stole her reason, and left her hands wringing at her sides. 

No. 

It had been for business, and nothing more. She was sure of it, his hasty retreat only proving that suspicion as fact. 

A needle pierced her heart at that particular thought. She’d been so romantic before, swearing she’d only marry for love. That was until she listened to Margaery’s insistence on the practicality of Lord Baratheon’s offer. 

Until she accepted it. 

Until she went through with it. 

That starry-eyed girl was gone now. Knowing she’d only been chosen because of her less than appealing situation and his legalities, shouldn’t have affected her as much as it did. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she spoke pleasantly to him, swallowing back that pain she reminded herself she had no right to feel. She had not gone without in this bargain; she’d been given a title, a home, a child. A single night she could never forget...  

In the jostle of the carriage ride, they swayed with each bump and divot in the road, their eyes sweeping over one another, inspecting every square inch of person. While his features appeared unchanged, there was something altogether off about the man before her. He was easily distracted and had hardly even attempted to hold the lightest of conversations with her. The silence in the carriage was more pregnant than she! 

Her fan served as the perfect cover with which to steal curious glances--first at the brass buttons on his uniform, shimmering from the sunlight through the carriage window. They called to her, filled her with pride for the man whose name she now shared, whose child she now nurtured. Within his collar lied a cravat meant to conceal his neck from view. He’d pulled at it enough however, to expose his adam’s apple, bobbing up and down with each swallow.

It was strange to her how so many things could remind her of the differences between man and woman, though society had decided that the protrusion in their throats were deemed entirely Adam to a woman’s Eve. Her eyes roved up to his lips next, the memory of how they felt against her flesh so long ago, reminded her of a few other features she felt spoke to their differences more profoundly. 

Unable to gaze upon them any longer, lest an uncomfortable pressure build in places she’d forced herself to ignore in her husband’s absence, she lifted her eyes to meet his. She’d seen her own blue irises staring back at her in mirrors plenty of times to know it was an attractive enough color, brightening any mood a face may wear. She had not, however, anticipated the severe shade of blue Stannis was blessed with, and just how greatly it would seize her loins--the aforementioned part she’d been ignoring. 

His eyes were sharp and crisp and sparked each nerve ending in her body to fire as if they were made of flint. Heat escaped the seams of her dress, rolling up to crash against her face, flushing her a rose-hue made more obvious against the contrast of her light complexion. He did not meet her eye, only stole glances down to the growing child within. Grateful he didn’t question or try to deny what they’d created together in their singular encounter, Sansa supposed he had right to be so entranced by it. After all, she’d been astounded each day by every minute change in detail her body underwent, fulfilling its true purpose.

That didn’t stop her from simultaneously wishing he’d look into her eyes--see her for more than the vessel for which to carry his lineage, and likewise pray he didn’t. Where her eyes contained her soul, his had proven to be rife with potency. Lord Stannis Baratheon was decorated for his valor, renown for his strategy, respected for his standing. He said very little and thought quite extensively.

Quite simply, the man was a mystery. 

Staring directly into such intrigue would consume her, of that she was certain. Silently begging The Seven to intervene and determine their next move, she knew there would be no escape from the full intensity of his attention. Not locked in a moving carriage traveling back to his estate--a place she’d come to call home.

Home. 

How far away would that feeling fly now that he’d returned? Any sense of comfort and routine she’d developed would be disrupted by his presence. Whether he intended for it to or not. His return had been something she’d desired, even though she’d learned to carry on without him. 

Again, she was divided, craving his break in her monotony, though also weary of what his return might mean to her freedoms. Or to her standing in the house. The servants had come to respect her as much as they could without his being there to insist. Her growing belly only aided her in the validity of her claim as their master. Would they still defer to her so easily in the wake of their lord’s homecoming?

So lost in the hypothetical, she had not consciously noticed the brilliant blue that filled her field of view. His gaze was steady and hypnotic, freezing her in place, the reality of it was so vibrant it blinded. 

The Seven had decided. 

Her ears burned, scorched by the entirety of it. So many nights she re-lived his touch, ghosting over her in the shameless pitch black of their wedding night. His eyes ate her alive in the Tyrell’s library as he offered her apologies and promises, and she’d reminded herself of that each time her eyes strayed from the book in her hands, the food at her table, or the face before her.      

“Hot?”

Hot?

The question hung in the air, seemingly detached from it’s subject. Sansa blinked, trying to discern the question and its point of origin. The only other person in the carriage with her was Stannis.

He was talking to her...about  _ the weather _ , of all things! She let loose a nervous chuckle. “No, whyever would you think that?” 

Too great a gentleman to speak against her false testimony, he only raised his finger to indicate his source of information. Sansa followed his finger to her own hand holding her fan. In the midst of her carnal thoughts, her wrist had decided to flick back and forth entirely on its own, waving the fan to cool the heat she was overcome by. 

“Oh,” she choked. 

He said nothing, only made a low sound of agreement.

Caught--her cheeks flushed further. Sansa immediately dropped her fan, letting it collapse quickly to tuck away at her side. Sweat lined her brow as she sought any excuse she could, entirely unable to say,  _ For seven long months I’ve thought about nothing but the things you’ve done to me, and I pray you’ll do them all over again.  _

“It is an unusually warm spring,” he offered at the exact same time she said, “It’s the baby.” 

“The baby?” His nostrils flared, concern clear in the wrinkle of his brow.

Her heart warmed to see him take such an interest so quickly. Most men were known not to take interest until the child was born--longer still after that. Men often required more expression on the part of the child to endear them to them before they’d offer any such admiration. “It’s fine,” she assured him, her own hand resting over it to rub comforting circles. “It’s just…” she trailed off, suddenly embarrassed to disclose any information regarding the impact of pregnancy on her body--now far from flawless. 

“What?” he asked, his eyes wide, and even more staggering because of it. His voice had been rough, though softened now to insist, “Tell me.”

Sansa searched for the words, tiptoeing herself over a lie because the unadulterated way he beseeched her warranted only honesty, and her own pride wouldn’t allow it so raw. “I find since-” She cleared her throat, trying not to make reference to their time of intimacy, regardless of the fact that it was always the first thing to come to mind. “Since I’ve come to  _ carry _ , I am often times much warmer than usual.” 

There. It wasn’t technically a lie. It would also offer her an excuse for the next time she found herself blushing over various details of his physique. Glancing down at the ring on her finger, she knew it was only bound to happen again and again. Forever was a long time to pine for a man too honorable to wish a repeat of their wedding night without the expressed goal of heirs.

He’d made that clear enough upon his proposal, and only reaffirmed it with how quickly he answered the call of duty. 

“Oh,” he responded, mirroring her level of intellect from moments before. Much quicker to rally his wits, he asked, “What has been the doctor’s opinion regarding the matter?”

She smiled. So caring and thoughtful, he sought medical opinion immediately. Moreover, he had trusted that she would too, acting vigilant in his absence. It helped to see he held some faith that she would be a good wife to him. Putting his mind at ease, she answered readily, “He promised that a rise in body temperature is considered normal in pregnancy.”

A low rumble emitted from across the carriage.

Before she could explore the sound any further, they rolled to a stop and the sound of boots crunching on the gravel confirmed that they had arrived at their destination. The door opened and fresh air filled the cabin, breaking whatever spell they were under. 

His hand hovered cordially in the doorway. Emotions had swirled around inside her until she was lightheaded, necessitating her acceptance. Her heart swelled at the firm feel of his grasp. It was so solid and certain and nothing like the misty memory she’d been carrying of it. Mind made up, she decided his being home was a good thing, despite whatever adjustments had to be endured because of it. 

It would be work to keep herself from falling in love with him, not knowing whether or not he could ever grow similar feelings for her. It would be worth it, however, because he was a kind enough man, and he’d somehow managed to make her feel safe.

A mere eight hours later, she was left to re-evaluate her hasty decision. In a true state, she had begun pacing back and forth in her bedchamber. She should have anticipated the cold way in which he’d hardly raise his head in acknowledgement of her departure for sleep. Dismissing her so easily. 

What had she thought would happen?

He would rise from his chair, set his work down and reach for her? Promise that he’d longed for her in their time apart, and beg her to return to his chamber with him?

He’d wanted her there before... 

Sansa looked down at her large belly, feeling it move and roll within itself, tiny limbs pushing and kicking against her upset. Scoffing at the absurdity of him having anything to do with her, she gave her belly a pat as she paced. She’d fulfilled her purpose, what more could he possibly desire of her? 

He wouldn’t reach for her now, that was obvious enough.

Probably never again.

Women didn’t sleep in their husband’s chambers, and it was ridiculous of her to feel so affronted over retiring to her own--alone. His words on their wedding night had been simply that--words. Soft and kind, and merely caught in a moment. 

That moment had passed now and they would live their lives practically, with the expected. That first night had been the most difficult, her head telling her that he would not trouble her any further and her heart wishing he would. It was hard to settle herself, wondering about him walls away in his own chamber. Was his sleep restful, or as fitful as hers? The last night he’d spent in his bed had been with her, yet on every night since he’d been alone. Had he come to that realization as well? Did it affect him as much as she refused to let it her?

Finally, exhaustion took her and she fell asleep curled on the edge of her bed, atop the covers. Her lady’s maid tiptoeing across the floor stirred her awake the next morning, sunshine a harsh sting in her eyes. It had only been a few hours since she’d fallen asleep and she knew that fact would make for a long day. Perhaps a nap would offer a reprieve from the way her insides twisted each time she thought Stannis might be watching, or dropped each time she realized he wasn’t. 

And so it went on. Days turning to weeks. Her never knowing her husband’s business or even his whereabouts most of the time. He would surprise her occasionally by joining her at tea time, his conversation short and limited, their distance maintained. It seemed as if some mystical force refused to allow him in her general vicinity without at least two pieces of furniture to stand barrier between them. 

It was ridiculous to let her mind stray so far in to fantasy. Sansa was sensible enough to understand that, and just survivalist enough to ignore it. What charm did reality hold if it meant the man that plagued her waking thoughts as much as he had her dreams, was avoiding her of his own volition?

Rejecting her. 

Each night, she hugged her pillow close and ran her hand over her belly. She told it the story of her parents and the life she had before she’d received her courses and the world became so much more difficult of a place to live in. Sometimes, she would find something nice to say about Stannis to the baby, keeping it short as he was hardly ever around her enough to give her much to discuss. Whenever exhaustion threatened to take her, she would think,  _ At least we have each other, little one. No matter what. And I am grateful to him for that.  _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally much longer before I realized it needed to be broken into 2. I'm still combing over the second half and hope to have it up in the next 24 hours or so, but I thought I'd at least post this first part for everyone to read :-)


	6. Little Dove

“Gods! You are perfection personified!” 

Sansa looked up from the bannister she stood by, pulled from the depressing regularity of a day spent. People gathered in the entryway, people she instantly recognized to be family--by marriage. A quick glance over to Stannis, standing in the doorway from the parlor, reminded her of their long overdue welcome visit. He’d mentioned his relations coming during one of their brief tea-time exchanges. He’d paid so little attention to it, that she’d not been cognizant of the timing. In truth, her attention had been too focused on counting how many times his eyes met hers, to have listened too closely. 

Renly Baratheon stepped forward, proud as a peacock, reaching for her hand to place a chaste kiss on her knuckles before pulling her into an embrace and whispering in her ear, “My brother doesn’t deserve an angel such as you.”

She had favored him once, that dashing smile and charisma. It felt so far in the past now, that time before she grew with child--before Stannis had called her ‘darling.’ When he may have meant it, if only for one night. Renly’s smiled did little to impress her now, and her smile back was much more mechanical for it. 

A familiar rumble sounded from Stannis’ direction and before Sansa could turn her head to look, Renly laughed. “Easy brother, there is no competition between us. You won her hand, justly. She is yours.” He glanced down to her belly, amusement lighting his eyes as he added, “ _ Clearly _ .” 

His innuendo set him so separately from his brother that Sansa took even more pride in her marriage, that she find herself forever tied to a man with much more class than to speak in such a way. That aside, her heart wandered on her now, questioning whether or not there had truly been some sort of competition between them.  

No. That was unlikely. If there had been, surly Stannis would have paid her more mind in all the time since he’d returned home. If he’d won her as Renly teased, perhaps, Stannis would have offered her even just one term of endearment in the past month. 

“You want yourself a woman, then quit dilly-dallying and get one already,” Robert bellowed from the head of the hall, kicking his dogs back through the doorway. “Down you blasted hounds of hell!” 

“Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have brought them,” his wife hissed beside him. Cersei Baratheon was blonde and beautiful and forewent the saccharine exterior most women bothered with. With family ties as strong as hers, Sansa supposed the woman was afforded a certain degree of blatancy. Her marriage to Robert had been arranged for nothing more than money and title, much like hers and Stannis’. Ignoring that painful pang, Sansa eyed her inlaws and appreciated that regardless of their sad union, it was at least a truth that neither of them tried to hide from the world, or each other. 

They had, at times, been observed to attempt a relationship that consisted of more than simple marital business associates--smiling and embracing openly at various parties. Those instances had been fewer and far between, and only lessening still. This was according to Margaery (Sansa’s source for all the Ton’s gossip). 

“Nonsense!” Robert dismissed her so easily. “We’ll want a hunt in the morning. Won’t we Stanni-boy?”

Both Renly and Cersei rolled their eyes in unison. Sansa was certain Stannis would not appreciate being referred to as such and turned to verify that fact. He’d moved from his place at the door to stand beside her, his expression bordering on hostile. Startled by their proximity, she stifled a gasp. 

How had she not noticed him come to be so near? 

He was quiet and still, and though he was quite close, he’d managed not to bump or brush her skirts. What was he doing? And why? In the weeks since his return, he’d silently insisted upon their distance, yet now in the presence of guests, he’d taken his place at her side. 

An unexpected burst of anger roiled up inside of her, knowing his actions were insincere. They were merely theatrics, meant to fool others into believing their marriage was a happy one. That ship had--quite literally--sailed. 

On any typical day, he couldn’t bear her company, suffering through meals and polite inquiries as to the babe’s wellbeing. Yet now, before the face of his blood, he behaved as if he thought her a formidable enough wife, deserving of such a loyal display. 

How dare he! 

Dinner had flown by in a haze, her thoughts whirling and turning sour against the illusive man who played at a deeper degree of intimacy than he truly wanted. People spoke around her and she smiled politely, managing only the most superficial of conversation. Stannis had escorted her to her seat in the drawing room after, acting ever the doting husband for everyone to see. 

She hated him for it. 

And then she didn’t. 

Hadn’t he always been the perfect gentleman? Regardless of his lack of attachment to her? He was always ensuring she was properly situated and every conceivable need met, before ever even considering resting himself. One could argue that he hadn’t been behaving out of the ordinary at all on this particular day. Though, there was still something different to his demeanor--something she couldn’t ignore. 

It had been a cold gesture of proper etiquette before. Each time, he had avoided her eyes, treating his care for her as if it were a chore he must complete. The disdain she felt from him for it, made her wonder at the things he would force himself to do to face his reflection in the shaving mirror each morning. Though, now it had somehow transformed in the light of his eye, not only meeting hers, but  _ holding  _ it. 

Her breathing hitched, her face heating at the blue flames that blazed back at her. His lips twitched with something akin to satisfaction when she nodded back ever so slightly in silent confirmation that she was well-seated. Pleasing him gave her an unexpected pleasure all in its own. 

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” Renly interrupted her thoughts with his unabashed observation. “Pregnancy hasn’t ruined her at all.”

The air grew thick, tension building beside her. Though Stannis did not posture or growl, he’d somehow affected the atmosphere around him to feel as though he might as well have. “She wears her state well,” he admitted through tight lips in an unrecognizable voice. 

“Careful now,” Renly teased from behind his wine. “Keep on showering her with such praise like you are, and she’ll never wish to be without child again.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide at the idea. She’d not thought about other children, not since she realized Stannis would never again visit her bedchamber once she’d given him the heir he required. A small voice deep inside reminded her that he’d said he wanted as many as she’d give him. A firmer, sadder voice insisted that was before he had her and deemed her disappointing. Why else would he have been avoiding her so?

“After a few pups, they lose their vigor,” Robert rather unhelpfully proclaimed. “Best not to put her in a family way too many times.” 

Sansa forced her jaw to remain in place, refusing to let her chin drop and her mouth gape open at such a statement. Stannis appeared fit to murder, and Sansa wasn’t sure if it was over their intimacy being likened to breeding, or if it was any sort of indignation on her behalf.

The sound of a throat clearing, turned all attention toward Cersei scowling at her husband. 

Sighing as he said it, Robert dismissed her offense, “Three is not too much.” 

“Isn’t it?” She challenged. 

Renly was quick to interfere. “That is a good question. How many is appropriate?”

It was Stannis that responded for his brother, his eyes never leaving Sansa as he said, “As many as to produce an heir.” 

Sadness hadn’t felt as heavy as it had since the passing of her parents. It was as she’d thought. He’d changed his mind, for certain. She’d suspected, and he’d just confirmed. No longer pretending to want her until she tired of him, Stannis cared only for the practical purpose of their entanglement. 

How men changed once they got what they wanted. 

Sansa chided herself for both being so hurt, and for allowing herself to be so affected in the first place. He’d only confirmed what she’d known all along.   

Cersei offered her an uncharacteristically warm smile, apparently taking notice of the way in which Stannis saw to her before finding his seat at the card table with his brothers. Turning into her, her voice lowered, “How fortunate. It appears as though your husband will bless you with less.” Her hand dropped down to Sansa’s belly, laying it flat over the hardened lump of what could only be the baby’s head or backside. The nerve! Too shocked to protest, Sansa listened to her add, “Assuming he doesn't discover the truth.” Her green eyes flashed meaningfully. “And assuming you aren't cut off if he does.”

The truth? Cut off? 

Lowering her own voice, Sansa furrowed her brow. “I'm not sure I understand your meaning.”

Cersei let a well-known fact serve as explanation. “Stannis left the morning after your wedding night.”

Sansa tilted her head in confirmation. Yes, that had been true. Still curious as to her meaning, Sansa wore her confusion on her face clearly. 

“Oh, come on now. We all know.” She waved her hand dismissively. 

Blinking, Sansa glanced up from their private conversation to see the men had turned away to carry on their own affairs. “And what is it precisely, that you know?”

“About your affair,” Cersei whispered as if it was something not only true, but in fact old news. 

Sansa tensed, her eyes wide in alarm. She knew her body’s harsh reaction to such a stain on her reputation was only making her look guilty--caught. Her reddened flesh served false verification to such an accusation. 

Her mouth had gone bone-dry, and she found it necessary to swallow a couple of times to get the saliva moving in her mouth. With a tremble in her voice, she watched Stannis to ensure he wasn’t paying attention as she denied it. “Pardon, but you are mistaken. There is no affair.” 

“Don't be silly,” Cersei laughed lightly. “Why else would you have married so quickly?” Glancing over to Stannis, she lifted her glass to obscure her lips, “And to Stannis no less.”

Unable to form words, Sansa sat there flabbergasted. 

“It must be everso convenient that his profession often takes him away for long spells. If timed appropriately, you need never surrender your lover.” So much scandal had fallen so effortlessly from her sister-in-law’s lips, that Sansa wondered if she was capable of stopping it. Her concern was put to rest when Cersei paused long enough to take a sip of her wine. Though, the moment the glass left her lips, she asked in a conspiratorial way, “Tell me, have you hidden him amongst your staff?” 

Sansa’s jaw dropped and then instantly snapped shut. She was above gaping--particularly with an audience to witness such incivility. Robert’s loud obnoxious laugh rocked his belly in his seat, spit flying from his lips, interrupting their private moment. Seeing everything so clearly, Sansa realized that her brother and sister by marriage’s marriage had been a sham. One that made them both crass and crude because of it. They had truly become their worst selves, all the happiness they might have had rotting away as they lay in the beds they’d made for each other. 

Stannis may not have loved Sansa, but he wasn’t cruel about it. In fact, it didn’t seem likely that he’d begrudge her anything. He certainly wouldn’t make her a fool because of it. With righteous indignation, Sansa pursed her lips and struck back. “No. Is that where  _ you  _ hide  _ yours _ ?”

Her heart beat between her ears, and a dull ache rumbled in her belly at her words. It was unlike her to act anything but polite to a guest in her home, especially one that was meant to be considered her family now. Drawing a silent breath, she waited for Cersei to take proper offense. 

Instead, amusement lit Cersei’s eyes as she whispered, “That depends. Which one are you referring to?”

Well, that was embarrassing. 

Not expecting such an admission, Sansa was more than a little surprised that she didn’t find her any more disagreeable than she had been before. If anything, such honesty only worked to the woman’s benefit. Letting her hand fall to her belly, Sansa decided to give her honesty in return. “There is no lover. This is my husband's child.”

Cersei set her glass down, a seriousness settling over her features as she inspected Sansa’s. After a couple of seconds, her lips parted in disbelief. “You’re telling the truth.” Her head tilted, her eyes narrowing as she peered back into hers. “And you love him. You actually love him.”

Sansa sat stock still, fearing any motion would give away a confession she wasn’t prepared to make to herself let alone a bitter woman in the midst of a peculiar moment. Something inside herself told her not to respond, not to speak the things she couldn’t have aloud. 

As if completely unaware of her internal struggle, despite how observant Cersei seemed to be, her eyes traveled back over to Stannis. She said nothing for a moment, watching him as he listened to his brothers speak. “And he loves you too,” she decided.

The words were a shot through her heart. Cersei knew nothing. If Stannis had loved Sansa he would have said so. Or he would have at least found some enjoyment (however small) in her company. Or he would have tried not to look so miserable each time he saw her. Perhaps he’d be bothered at all to write her a bloody letter even just once in all the months he was away!

Her jaw tight, Sansa corrected her, yet again. “I’m afraid not.” 

“Of course he does.” She waved her hand. “Why else would your marriage be so rushed? If was not to conceal a pregnancy, but for the sake of a man’s love. They’re such impulsive creatures.” 

Dreams were created from such ideals, and crushed by much less. The words fell out of Sansa’s mouth before she could stop them, her own degree of bitterness showing. “It was for money.” 

Cersei stilled at that. “Your family has wealth.” 

Sansa hesitated, feeling as if she’d already spoken too much. Their truth wasn’t so horrific, though unpleasant as it may be. She would not embarrass her husband by flouncing their affairs around.

Sadly, she needn’t say a word. Understanding smoothed Cersei’s brows. Uttering a sick laugh she said, “Of course, Selyse. She always was a wretched woman.” Rubbing her thumb over the gold filigree on her wedding band, circling each garnet, Cersei puzzled it out. “He needed your money because he was left without in her will. And you agreed because you lacked appropriate backing.” Her smile was rueful as she turned her head and gazed into the fire. “Still just a child.”

Sansa wanted to take offense to being called such, but saw no malice in the woman’s words. It almost felt as though she were talking of someone else--her younger self perhaps.  

There was no sense in denying her estimation, it being so incredibly correct. In addition, Sansa was a terrible liar, and Stannis’ financial needs were no longer an issue to hide, even if talk of money was decidedly low-class. And doing so felt wrong. As if it were a betrayal against her husband and the secret pact they’d made. 

Silence was the only solution. That, and the hope that either the men direct their attention toward them and break up this little tete-e-tete, or that Cersei lose interest in their not-so-polite conversation. 

Instead, the woman only seemed to focus more in the quiet. “However your marriage began is irrelevant. We live in the present.” Again she leaned in, her eyes heavy-lidded as she whispered, “If you love him, then make him love you in return.”

Were it only that easy. “ _ Make _ him?” 

Cersei smiled as she brought her cup back up to her lips. “Yes. A lady needs her husband to provide for her, and a man’s  _ needs  _ are something only a woman can provide.” Sansa was certain she caught her wink at her before she added, “Become indispensable.”

Sansa’s eyes traveled over to Robert, loud and entirely unappealing. Her question is faint, but heard nonetheless. “Is that what you did?” 

Bristling suddenly, the smile left Cersei’s lips and her eyes grew distant. “Yes. Though, not with him,” she confessed.

Perhaps her mind had wandered to one of her secret lovers, Sansa couldn’t be sure. Just as she was about to break the silence and change the subject of their conversation, Cersei blinked and forced an empty smile. Her attention dropped down to Sansa’s pregnancy. “Let’s pray this child is born a girl. It will force him to patronize you again.”

Sansa cringed less at her meaning, than the way in which she chose to express it. 

“This time, you won’t be so virginal,” Cersei smiles. “He will fall for your charms, now that you’ve realized them.” 

Charms? What charms could she possibly be referring to? If she meant her feminine wyles, she was sorely mistaken. It had been Stannis’ patience and experience that had been so  _ charming  _ on their wedding night. 

Glancing back to Stannis, Cersei seemed not to notice the doubt that riddled Sansa. “Let us give him a little push, shall we?” 

Sansa’s brow wrinkled. She wasn’t left confused for long, for Cersei brought her hand down to her belly. It was awkward and strange to have her reach so unexpectedly--a second time, no less. Her voice was suddenly louder and more emphasized as she exclaimed, “Oh! The baby! Feeling the tiny life growing inside, moving beneath my hand is nothing short of miraculous!”

Again, Sansa was certain she witnessed her wink. 

Cersei had put on quite the show, drawing everyone’s attention to them all at once. Heat and frustration rose in Sansa’s cheeks, feeling the room draw to her over the scene Cersei was making. 

If there had been any doubt as to the reason behind Cersei’s dramatics, it had been dispelled by Stannis later that evening. He hadn’t touched her in front of their guests, regardless of how permissive she would have been. Instead, he found the occasion to exercise his rights--both fatherly and  _ intimately _ , in the hall outside her chamber door, long after everyone had gone to bed. 

At first, he looked annoyed, his nostrils flaring when he marched toward her in the corridor. His eyes dropped down to her gauzy nightgown, a satin robe worn over her shoulders and open in the front. Her belly had grown too large to allow her tie to close. A flush rose from beneath his own robe, stretching up his neck as he growled, “What are you doing out of your room?”

Sansa leaned back, surprised into submission. The accusation in his tone forced her to question her own behavior. Had she done anything wrong? 

No. 

She hadn’t. 

Damn him for making her feel as though she had. 

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she looked down her nose at him--which was no small feet considering he was about a half a foot taller than she. “I was seeing to one of our guests.” 

The sound that emitted from the back of his throat forced her to discover new fine hairs on her body as they rose to such a primal call. She had always known that he was a strong man, capable of murder, else he could not have otherwise risen to the station he had. She had also caught glimpses of a more savage side to the man on the rarest of occasions: the abrasions on his knuckles the day he returned from sea (and never offered explanation for), the pleasure he took in hunting...the hard way he took her once she had asked for  _ all  _ of him. 

“ _Which_ _guest?_ ” He spat the question out as if she were visiting the Marquis de Sade himself! 

He stared at her, impatiently awaiting her response, and growing visibly more disgusted with each passing second. What did he have to be disgusted with?

“Cersei,” Sansa answered, taking issue with what he might have been implying. “She lacked parchment and quill.”

“ _ Parchment? _ ” 

Sansa swallowed. “Indeed. She wished to write a letter. Said she did so each night she was away from her children.”

“At this time of night.” It was a question, yet the inflection still suffered whatever terrible thoughts he’d been harboring, for the words were ground out as recrimination. 

Sansa nodded, having no other response to give. It was entirely true that Lady Cersei Baratheon had chosen this particular night to knock upon her door and request that she bring her parchment and a quill upon her earliest convenience. 

The red creeped further up his neck, heat pouring from his collar and up to his face. “And you felt a member of our staff could scarcely be trusted for such an errand?”

Sansa should have sent a maid to deliver it, but found that walking helped with all the strains and aches of her body so encumbered with her pregnancy. Seeing no reason not to divulge that fact, and knowing he’d sense anything but the entire truth, she pursed her lips in frustration and admitted, “Walking helps.”

His head tilted in silent question. Sansa’s hand came down to her belly, allowing it to drift down below her navel to cradle the weight of her pregnancy. Breathing through another uncomfortable cramp, she explained, “The baby. Believe it or not, lounging around is more uncomfortable than walking is.” 

His eyes darted around them as he determined her honesty. Either for the midnight correspondence or the truths of early motherhood, she could not be sure. Finally finding sense, his shoulders relaxed and his brow smoothed. Sansa awaited an apology or explanation, and received neither. 

“Mind if I?” 

It was less of a question, and more of a warning, because he reached before she could ever answer. To ask was to risk rejection. The look in his eyes in the lamplight, promised her that he had no intention of being denied, and he wasn’t a man to play chance. 

His palm flat and spread wide across the round bump of her belly, sent a tremor throughout. Unable to conceal the unconscious and entirely reflexive motion, she was left with no other option but to feel the seer of embarrassment burn her cheeks. This touch was not sexual in nature, and she’d actually encouraged it upon his welcome home. Though, with how strongly he’d been avoiding her, she hadn’t thought he’d desire to lay his hands on her again--for whatever purpose. 

Inhaling through her nostrils to calm her racing heart, she told herself this anxiety could only be attributed to the surprise of such interest. It certainly had nothing to do with the possibility that he may have wanted her for anything more. 

One eyebrow arched in silent curiosity, the very solid feeling of his hand heavy on her belly reminding her that the moment they were sharing was one forged firmly in reality--despite how surreal the feeling. He did not look down when their baby’s fluttered movement beneath his hand, his eyes still so affixed to hers. Neither could she break away her gaze, so completely caught by his. 

Crystal clear pools she could drown in began to swallow her whole, taking her up on such a morbid offer. Blinking rarely, it was as if only to tease her, to show her what it would be like without them to fall into. Ever so slowly and lightly (so much so that she questioned if it were happening at all, though she wouldn’t break their gaze to verify), one finger lifted. The back of it caught on the underside of her breast, and she stilled, her pulse beating loudly between her ears. Despite the way in which she startled, he did not retreat. His finger did not drop back down to rejoin the others, neither did he take his hand from her, recoiling. Instead, he held her gaze and his position. 

Did he realize his mistake?

The glimmer in his eye told her that it was no mistake. The curl of his lips asked if she noticed, if she’d gasp at the impropriety of it, or dare to enjoy it. His knuckle brushing discreetly this way and that was a challenge to her and something entirely  _ more  _ to him. 

The sound of her heart thumping loudly became the only sound in the world. Wetting her lips, she leaned into the the touch, more than allowing it. He was closer now, though she wasn’t sure it was entirely due to her movement alone. 

His eyelids drooped, half-covering his eyes, suddenly so black as he leaned toward her. His lips parted descending upon hers. She stood, shocked, staring at the long lashes of his closed lids before she snapped her own shut. 

The darkness allowed her to turn her attention to feel of his lips melting, his tongue gently massaging hers. His strong arm wound around her back, pulling her as close as her belly would allow. She gasped when his lips moved to her jaw and down her neck, the hand on her belly having travelled to her breast somehow without her notice. 

What a shocking turn of events!

Lord Stannis Baratheon had married her for money, shipped off at his commanding officer’s orders, and then avoided her at every opportunity since. Yet, there they were, in the middle of a corridor, her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he devoured her mouth and fondled her breast through the sheer material of her gown. 

The aching she’d been feeling in her belly all day grew stronger, though she ignored it. The pads of his fingers grazing over her hardened nipple, his arm around her tight and unrelenting, all took precedence over the constant discomfort of her state. 

There were a million things she wanted to say and yet nothing came to mind, her head clearing at the low growl he gave against her ear. He wasn’t a man of many words, though he was particularly expressive if one paid attention. His sounds were always judgemental: disapproving, disbelieving, appreciating, valuing. This sound--so like the ones she heard on her wedding night, steered clear of judgement, and could be recognized as nothing other than what it was.

A demand. 

One she would more than willingly yield to. 

Her head turned to catch him for another kiss when another dull pain rumbled through her belly, squeezing her lower back. She’d felt this way before, but it was so much stronger this time, much more so than any other. A sharp inhale had her grip on him tighten, a small cry slipping from her lips before a gush of warm water washed down her legs and hit the floor beneath their feet. 

Her waters had broken, and in that single instant she had never wished her mother alive more. 

Stannis reeled back, shock and horror twisting his face. There was no mistaking the severity of their situation and the panic of it all had taken away whatever momentary lapse of judgement he’d suffered, and she’d shamelessly enjoyed…

“It’s alright. It’s time.” 

The voice was warm and confident reminding her that this was supposed to happen. It belonged to neither herself, nor Stannis who still stood gaping before her. Her arm was lifted and set atop a woman’s shoulders, bracing her--helping her. Long waves of golden hair hung, obscuring the woman’s face as she ordered, “Come, let’s get you in bed.” 

Sansa was shocked to see it was Cersei and not her maid escorting her back to her chambers. Jaime Lannister--Cersei’s brother, appeared in a doorway further down the hall. He’d ridden in after dinner had concluded, stating he had business from his father to share with Robert, and due to the late hour, Stannis had graciously allowed him to rest for the night. He said nothing, watching them make their way to Sansa’s room, only walked toward Stannis as if to remind him of his place. 

This was woman’s work. Where men were allowed to roam every square inch of the world, to decide each action independently, and single-handedly change the course of history on a whim,  _ this  _ was the one thing they were denied.

“No,” Sansa protested, faintly. “It’s not time.”

Cersei smiled. “We all feel that way in the grip of it.” Her hand came down to hold the large quaking belly that suddenly felt separate from Sansa’s body--so pain-filled. “You  _ look  _ ready.”

Sansa shook her head. The doctor had said the same thing, but he was wrong. She’d only ever been with Stannis; it hadn’t been long enough. 

Her husband’s rough voice called behind her in agreement, “It’s too soon!”

Her eyes shot to his, tears blurring her vision as a cry escaped her. Her body was failing them both. Her voice was strangled as she beseeched him, “Forgive me, Stannis!”

He lunged forward and Jaime held him back, Robert and Renly coming to their doors in various states of undress to learn the source of commotion that stirred them from their slumber. Sansa barely noticed them, or heard them speak their inquiries, her eyes so locked on his. They were a storm of emotion: worry and remorse, anger and anguish.

The door to her chamber shut between them and Stannis felt as far away as when he’d been at sea. Another wave of pain ripped through her, forcing away all the heartache she felt for her husband. 

Cersei spoke in her ear. “You are a woman, Sansa. This is what you were meant to do.”

Closing her eyes to the reality of the inevitable, Sansa gasped for breath at the tear of her insides. 

Cersei called for the servants and then turned back to her, gripping her hand. “Breathe and fly away. Far far away from the pain. As if you were a dove soaring high above it all, untouched.”

She reached down and began bunching the long night rail up to Sansa's knees as she barked orders to the maids that had suddenly appeared with buckets of water and linens. “Come Little Dove,” she said. “It’s time to meet your child.”

Tears poured down Sansa’s cheeks as she shook her head. No, it wasn’t.  

 

 


	7. Trouble

“Steffon Eddard Baratheon,” Stannis declared to his brothers around him. Beaming proudly down at the infant in his arms, he cradled his first born son with great care. The infant’s nose was his, though Stannis noted a tinge of red in the boy’s hair that may have either been from his mother, or due to washing him in haste, preparing him for presentation. Time would tell. This child was smaller than his Shireen had been, though he had survived his birth regardless of that fact, which meant he was strong now and would only grow more so with time.

Shireen.

He wondered on occasion as to what she’d think of the things she witnessed from her perch on high in the afterlife. It took staring in the face of his newborn son for Stannis to think of her now, though he suspected that was due to the depth at which he’d buried his feelings regarding his daughter. Did she approve of Sansa, or the way he adored a woman who wasn’t her mother? Who could never share his feelings? Would she be jealous of her younger brother and the happiness he brought Stannis?  

His thoughts were interrupted when Robert leaned over to peek under the blanket and chuckled. “Quite a little runt, isn’t he?”

Stannis tensed. Of course he was small, he was premature. It was a bloody miracle the child was alive at all. Stannis had his young wife’s sheer will and determination to thank. The poor dear was still moaning in her chamber as they stood outside, admiring the fruit of her rather arduous labor. He wished there was something he could do for her, but knew any attempt would be futile.

Boxing his brother for his insult would have aided him in feeling less powerless, but would do little for Sansa’s pain. Stannis stifled the urge to put Robert in his place once and for all, only by telling himself that he didn’t wish to jostle his son any more than necessary.

To his surprise, Renly came to his defense. “We were all little once, and we grew.”

Jaime Lannister spoke from the corner. “Some of the worthiest men have been smaller in stature.”

Stannis knew that Jaime’s opinion grew from his own relations as his brother was unfortunately afflicted with dwarfism. It wasn’t something Robert or Cersei ever discussed, practically ignoring the man’s existence, seeming to hope their treatment might actually banish away the affliction. Jaime, on the other hand, had always taken a different approach. It had been one of acknowledgement, and a refusal to succumb to any shame over what nature had cursed them with. Though the rumors about Jaime’s questionable business ventures were true--all the man’s money tied up in various speculations, his willingness to stand by his brother showed him to be more honorable than Robert.

It was a sad state of affairs when an infant--so new and innocent to this world, required defending from his own family. At least Robert was alone in his jeering, and the other grown men in attendance had seen sense enough to stand against Robert’s crass comments.

Oh what little wonders were still left in the world.

Stannis lifted his head, finally tearing his eyes away from the constant catalogue of features his eyes kept, to offer them both an appreciative nod. It was the least he could do when both men proved themselves to be such a cut above his eldest brother.

Sensing he was outnumbered, Robert held up a hand in surrender. “I meant no offense.”

Another low moan emitted from the other side of the wall and Stannis felt his stomach lurch. Many women died in childbirth, and even though his son had been born safely, he didn’t take it for granted that she would likewise survive the ordeal.

“Don’t concern yourself, brother. The doctor is with her,” Renly attempted to comfort.

Jaime’s instincts were tuned more finely, enough to know better than to tell a man hopelessly in love with the mother of his child that he shouldn’t worry himself with her wellbeing. Instead, Lord Lannister said, “It’s not uncommon for women to suffer beyond their work. The afterbirth was particularly hard on Cersei after Joffrey.”

“It was?” Robert asked, a look of surprise evident in his features.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaime hissed. “You’d know had you been present.”

This back and forth was doing nothing to calm Stannis’ nerves and he practically vaulted out of his own skin when Daisy reached for his son. She was Davos’ younger sister, and had not spent a day in service prior to them hiring her the week before. Sansa felt it was important to employ the girl early in preparation for the child that was expected to come in another month’s time.

Davos’ family came from one of the poorest sections of the region and he’d only managed to rise above it because sons were given priority and opportunity. The love he felt for his sister was dear and easily recognized by any that made their acquaintance. When news arrived that Daisy had lost an infant to deep sleep--her husband away at sea, Davos was bound by his family loyalty to beseech Stannis’ aid.

He made a case for her to become the young Master Baratheon’s wet nurse, said she’d take on additional tasks such as washing and handling him as well, to sweeten the favor. If it had been anyone else’s relative, Stannis would have declined, but Davos had established his credibility long ago.

“Sorry, my lord.” She saw clearly how disappointed he was to lose the little bundle in his arms. Daisy offered an explanation as recompense. “The doctor advised on account of his size, that he not stray far from nourishment.”

Stannis didn’t bristle over her words, finding no mock or ridicule in them. Only, acknowledgement of a reality that couldn’t be denied. For whatever reason, Sansa’s body brought their son into the world sooner rather than safer.

As if to soothe him, she added, “The doctor assured Lady Sansa that his birth weight is normal.”

“Excuse me?” Stannis asked, unable to discern her meaning. Infants were small, yes. His son was smaller--too much so to be considered ‘normal.’ What was she referring to?

“Dr. Luwin promised his size is normal.” She had all but turned away as she added, “For a twin.”

“ _Twin_?” The word fell from his lips, the true meaning of it hardly sinking in.

Daisy nodded. “Yes. Lady Sansa is laboring at another babe now.” She furrowed her brow, looking at him as if he were an oddity jarred in a collection of the bizarre. “Have you not heard her at it, my lord?”

Stannis blinked at her, only then tuning his ears to the sounds of Sansa’s struggle. Lord above. Her pained moans were not of _afterbirth_ , but imminent and pressing labor! He had hardly a moment to fathom the information before Cersei was at the door, an expression of genuine pleasure spanning her features as she announced, “Another boy!”

Everyone around him erupted in cheers and joyous laughter. Renly slapped his back and Robert passed cigars around. Jaime clapped his hands together and flashed him a toothy grin of approval, interrupted only by a quick glance to his sister. There was a warmth there that Stannis was sure only a brother and a sister could share, as he’d never felt so fond of his own brothers. Though, perhaps it was due to the fact that they were twins.

Twins.

Twin boys.

“Is she well?” He asked once he found his voice.

Cersei’s smile hardened when she glanced to her husband. Was she disappointed that he hadn’t inquired? Or perhaps it had something to do with Jaime’s mentioning that Robert hadn’t shown interest when it was she that was in the birthing bed. Had Stannis’ question sparked a painful memory for her?

He couldn’t care to know, too concerned with the young wife that had given him, not one but two boys! “Cersei?” He asked again, needing to know.

She cleared her throat before she answered and forced another smile on her face. “It appears so. Dr. Luwin has not finished tending to her, though I’ve not observed anything disturbing through the ordeal.”

“Two boys!” Robert repeated, drawing all attention from his wife. “What will you name this one?”

“Doubt he’s thought of that,” Renly responded reasonably.

Jaime said nothing, only watched Cersei stand in place, holding the door open for Daisy still cradling young Steffon. For a moment, Stannis almost wanted to hear from him, a break in his brothers’ determination to offer his own assessment of things.

“I haven’t,” he admitted, knowing it was no fault of his own, but feeling as though he would be judged for it regardless. “And it is due to that misstep that I will defer the decision to my good lady wife.”

“Let her name the child?” Robert asked in disbelief.

“Why not?” Jaime responded, his eyes flashing back, challenging. “You’ve allowed my sister to name each one of her children.”

Cersei glared at Robert rather than retreat as Stannis would have expected. If Robert noticed her ire, he played aloof quite well, directing all of his attention back at Jaime, as if she hadn’t been standing there at all. He took a puff of his cigar before his own eyes narrowed back. “Only because she’d named them before my return each time.”

Renly smiled congenially. “I think it’s admirable that Stannis is willing to live his married life so unconventionally--to allow his wife such an advantage over him.”

Stannis wanted to ask what he knew about it, but stifled himself. There were too many spectators lining the hallway of his home, all with too large of an opinion for such a small space. Turning to Cersei, he repeated himself, “I approve of whatever Lady Sansa deems to name him.”

The small crowd that had gathered dispersed shortly after, satisfied to lay eyes on Stannis’ heir at least. A different attention would be paid to the second born, Stannis understood. That fact didn’t diminish his interest in the boy, choosing to linger and learn his name and his look. Cersei was the first out, a smile on her face as she congratulated him and promised that Daisy was fast behind her to present him. It took more effort on his part than he’d anticipated not to simply push past the door and enter Sansa’s chambers.

Though it was his estate, and he had right to enter any part of it, he knew enough that his place was on the other side of the oak door. Despite the longing in his fatherly heart. His work was to wait. It had felt like an eternity before Daisy appeared with a small bundle he presumed was his youngest son.

“Here you are, my lord.” She leaned forward, handing him over with care.

This one was so light, lighter so than his brother before him. It was no wonder Dr. Luwin hadn’t anticipated his existence--the secret of his blooming life so well kept hidden by his tiny size. “Is he well?” Stannis asked, needing to know.

“Yes, my lord.” A warm smile pulled at her cheeks. She spoke quietly as if too shy to be discussing such matters with him. “He took to feeding faster than his brother.”

Again, pride swelled in Stannis’ chest as he gazed down at the wrinkled pink flesh peeking out from the swaddle. Lifting back the linen ever so gently to see more of his son’s face, Stannis was startled to see charcoal wisps of hair around his crown. Again, his heart swelled to see his blood mix and mingle with another to bear him the life he cradled so preciously.

If he were a lesser man, he may have felt light-headed or let water wet his eyelids. By the sheer grace of God, Stannis was able to maintain himself in Daisy’s presence, only just barely. “And his name?” He gasped, fighting his emotion.

“Brynden,” she answered quickly. “Brynden Cressen Baratheon.”

Cressen?

Stannis lifted his gaze from his child long enough to silently question. Sansa had deemed to name their son Cressen? He couldn’t help but wonder at the connection she might have had to it--it not being a very common name for her to know. “Did she offer any explanation for her choice?”

Daisy shook her head. “No, my lord. Pardon.”

He was tempted to direct her to turn around and head back into Sansa’s chambers to inquire, but she continued to speak. “Lady Sansa is resting now, though I may ask if you wish, when she wakes.”

She was resting?

Of course she was.

It was ridiculous of him to expect that she would burst with such joie de vivre as he while in such a state. It was as if many years of his long life had been stripped away from him and he was left to prance around his hallway like a young buck having just proven himself virile. “No,” he answered quickly. “Allow her body the time to restore itself.”

Daisy curtseyed and then offered, “May I take him?”

Not wishing to relinquish any ounce of this moment with his child, though not seeing any good reason to decline, he resigned and handed his child over. Daisy turned back to the door and was through it in an instant, leaving Stannis standing outside to linger yet again.

It would have been proper to move on, if only his feet would carry him away. They refused to lift from the floor almost as fiercely as his heart refused to calm in his chest.

“Did he think him as handsome as his brother?” A quiet voice he recognized, asked through the wall. “Was he pleased?”

“Oh yes, my lady. Quite pleased,” Daisy’s voice (a trill higher) assured.

Stannis held his breath to better listen. With all the commotion ceased, and the crowd dispersed, he was able to hear the private moment his wife shared with her servant. Touched that she cared for his good opinion, a smile curled his lips. It was wrong to eavesdrop, he knew since childhood, though he couldn’t seem to pry his ear from the door.

“And the name?” Sansa asked. He detected the sound of nerves creeping in her voice. “Did he approve?”

He wanted to answer outright, to enter into the forbidden chamber and discuss the matter properly--proudly. It would have been rash and the poor girl was probably too fatigued to stand his presence, he knew that well enough. That was hardly great reason to rally the willpower needed to stifle the urge, though he would make do--for her. Resigning himself to stay at his station, Stannis leaned further into the door to better hear.  

“He didn’t say either way, only that he was curious about it,” Daisy reported truthfully. Silence followed and Stannis pictured a worried frown forming on Sansa’s face. It was too much to imagine. Daisy must have saw fit to address his lady’s concerns, because she continued to speak, “It’s likely he was too smitten over his babes to see much past their darling faces.”

There was a soft hum of approval through the door that warmed Stannis to his toes. Oh to bask in that faery sound of unconditional love and acceptance. Sansa had been made a mother, and with that transformation came the sort of magic only bestowed upon those that bore children. She would protect them with her new hawk-like eyes, seeing all danger well before it may ever be deemed as such. Nurture them in her loving arms and at her ample breasts. See them through illness and injury throughout long tireless nights sitting loyally at their bedside. In one horrendously laborious evening, Sansa had changed in so many ways and all of which made Stannis yearn for her even more than he had before.

His sons would thrive in her care, and he would be a fool not to fantasize that perhaps she might see fit to extend her newly acquired powers of nurture to more than just child, but also to _man_. Small waves of desire started lapping at all his most vulnerable edges, sending pleasure coursing through his veins. To lay himself across her bed, and crave the soothing tickle of her fingertips ghosting across his brow, her long hair dangling in a fiery curtain shielding him from the world as she smiled down at him, was an inclination he hadn’t anticipated.

He was losing himself in her.

As a naval man, he’d heard the stories about sirens luring ships to the rocks. Their songs consumed everything inside a man until desperation hollowed him away, leaving him only one mission: to lay hand on their beauty. This wasn’t the first time that Stannis had mused over the possibility that siren blood had in fact, mingled deep in his wife’s ancestry. How else could she rule so much of him with so little effort on her part? He genuinely wondered if she were even aware of her influence.

Prior to this night, his lust-filled thoughts had featured him tearing her corset open and devouring each rosey bud that teased him with their mere existence. Now, he imagined letting himself enjoying the full pillows her luscious body provided, resting his head upon them to nuzzle his nose at the brim of her dress. In a degree of abandon he’d only ever granted himself on three occasions in his life--all with Sansa, he would turn his head to let his tongue trace the flesh that bordered her garment, coaxing her delicious nipples from hiding. He’d kiss her breast slow and sweet, and circle the tender peaks until her coos became mewls. A pressure grew in his pants, the buttons on them straining to contain him, suffering the imagery.

He was a downright dirty scoundrel to allow his mind to wallow so freely in such debauchery. She was laid up in her birthing bed slowly recovering her constitution, and he was standing outside her room plotting his seduction.

The sheer depravity of it all was astounding. Stannis swallowed, working the saliva in his mouth, desperately trying to rein his baser self in. He was a father now--again, for heaven’s sake!  

“Rest now, my lady,” Daisy soothed and Stannis was grateful to hear her voice again. It was a cool glass of spring water poured down his trousers. “Your work here is done.”

“Hardly,” Sansa laughed. “My mother once told me that boys are more ravenous than girls, and there are two of them. There is no question that I will be nursing them as well.”

“As you wish.” Daisy paused before clarifying, “I only meant that you’ll need not suffer the birthing bed again. You’ve given Lord Baratheon an heir _and_ a second son--should he have ever wished it. He’ll not likely trouble you for anymore.”

Stannis stood upright, pulling his face from the door as he breathed to calm the tension in his shoulders and arms right down to his curled fists. Though breathing did little to settle the attack on his insides. Sansa responded quietly, and he hadn’t heard a word. Everything around him was drowned out by the repeated echo of: _He’ll not likely trouble you for anymore._

Trouble.

That’s what his affection was. Bothersome. Burdensome. A chore.

Sansa hadn’t seemed so inconvenienced on their wedding night, when she insisted on his touch, holding him deep inside herself despite the pain she’d suffer for it. She’d accepted his love then, when he thought it was real, before morning light drove him from his bed and brought him to the open sea. A place that promised his feelings were nothing more than lust in disguise.

And longing.

Neither had she seemed so exasperated over the kiss they shared before her waters broke. He questioned now if she was. Perhaps his lust had intruded again and revealed things that had no basis in reality. Turning away from her door, he decided he would reward such hard labor with the distance she desired.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter and then decided to splice it into 2 because when I stepped outside of my outline, it felt like 2 separate chapters to me. It wasn't an even cut, so the next update won't be as long as this one, but flow-wise, it felt right to do. So that will be coming out this weekend because it's mostly done, just needs to be smoothed out.
> 
> Also, tumblr's being a jealous ex right now and wiping some of my followers, so if you need to add me again or for the first time, I'm @0writerchick0 . If you see I've dropped you, just message me and I'll add you again. Chances are it's just tumblr acting way too crazy for how hot it used to be after a few drinks in soft lighting with a desperate willingness to do the weird stuff...


	8. One of Love

It wasn’t until three nights had passed before Stannis saw his wife again. She was a vision down a darkened hall in the dead of night, her footsteps quiet and careful. Her hand sliding on the wall beside her, served to offer stability when she was still rather unsteady. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find her escaping her chamber. Three days and nights laid down in bed, waking only to nurse crying babies would have driven anyone from their confines. It was a wonder she hadn’t broken free sooner. He would have wondered if she had, if he didn’t know for a fact that she hadn’t. Despite the ample space he’d provided for her, he’d still requested word regarding her well being. It was out of concern, of course. Though, also, for selfish reasons he’d never beg forgiveness for. 

Stannis had the servants report on whenever she slept so that he might visit his sons without risk of encountering her. There was no need to find himself face to face with the woman who so apparently detested his attentions as to find relief in mother nature’s mandatory reprieve from them. He would have sworn to never trouble her with his presence again, if it weren’t for his children. They welcomed him so warmly, happily grunting and cooing each time he lifted them from their bassinets. Miraculously, they seemed to grow more each night he visited, fast compensating for their prematurity. 

Steffon always woke in his arms, though never startled. His heavy eyelids cracked open to peer at him as if to say,  _ I see you. I’ve not been fooled and I’ll not be surprised by anything. _ Pride welled in Stannis’ chest as he imagined his son’s battle strategy far surpassing his own. A quick kiss against his tiny forehead served as promise that he would pass on the best of himself so that young Steffon might find himself leagues ahead of everyone else when he came of age. 

Brynden never opened his eyes, comfortable in his father’s arms. Though, that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of Stannis, for he’d always wriggle one arm out of his swaddle to reach for him. His grip was fierce, wrapping long fingers tightly around Stannis’ thumb, squeezing with all his might as if to warn that as soon as he got his legs under him, he’d not be one to trifle with. Stannis smirked at that, silently promising, _ I look forward to seeing the hell you put your nannies through. _

A pang of guilt hit him as he wondered if he’d ever noticed these things about Shireen. Had she been so gifted with personality so soon after her birth? Her mother kept her so far away from him, bitterly apologizing for the fact that she bore him a female instead of an heir as Cersei had for Robert. It had been of no matter to Stannis, him knowing that they could always have more children. That was before he’d known Selyse for the wretched woman she truly was. Still believing that their relations would improve, he hadn’t insisted on holding Shireen. Him still being a young man still, ignorant to the ways of a shrew, he convinced himself that with enough patience and perhaps some distance provided by sea, the tension knotting his first wife up would ease and she’d show him an ounce of warm. It had happened from time to time, on the rarest of occasion and never long in duration. It was during those times that she freely offered him Shireen to cradle in his arm. The child, sadly screeched her discontent each time.

The doctor then--not Luwin...what was his name? No matter. The doctor explained that Shireen was very ill even from birth, listing off things such as colic, croup, a dermatological condition he’d yet to find in his medical books. Stannis blamed himself, as any father would. Unfortunately, Selyse had blamed him as well. She said it was because he hadn’t worshiped in church past the expected Sunday while she was pregnant. The woman had always been religious and upon making the obligatory offer for her hand, he had anticipated she’d pressure him to share her devotion. He hadn’t expected, however, that she’d torture him so severely with it. On the first anniversary of Shireen’s birth, the poor child lay frail in bed, the putrid stench of her vomit in the pot beside her bed, Selyse bared her fangs to wound him deeply. She wiped Shireen’s mouth clean, sneering at him in disgust, her own lips spewing venom as said he hadn’t been god-fearing enough to seed a healthy child, and they’d both been punished for it. 

It had been nonsense. 

Nonsense that he’d begun to buy into after so many years spent looking into the tearful eyes of his own blood. Shireen would never have a life like children her age, would never grow into a beautiful woman for him to give away to the right man. She would forever wear rosy pink cheeks of her unending skin irritation and a pair of gloves to protect her delicate fingers. It took Stannis too long to discover the child destined to spend her days in bed had a mind past the pain and misery of chronic illness. What he wouldn’t have given to know her sooner--longer.

It is said that the ‘Lord giveth with one hand, and taketh away with the other,’ and though Stannis found that to be true, he felt as if it had all been done in reverse. The lord had taken away so much life in the pathetic excuse for one he gave Shireen. Selyse’s death gave so much more, allowing life to bloom within the walls of Dragonstone. 

Two sons. 

A wife. 

While Sansa didn’t love him in return, she was at least much more worthy of their life together than Selyse had ever been. Again the idea of Shireen’s acceptance troubled him. Holding his healthy infant sons was an insult to her memory--or it was in honor of it. He couldn’t decide. So much swirled around his head and his heart, confusing him to everything but the very obvious: he had children he refused to be separated from. 

They would know Sansa when she was awake and him when she slumbered. If that level of dedication to only two out of three of his progeny bought him a permanent cell in hell, then he would suffer it. Whatever Sansa’s thoughts on the matter were, he refused to relinquish his claim to them as he practically had Shireen. Stannis was not a young man anymore, and he would not be cowed by a woman’s ire. 

He couldn’t say how Sansa would manage his attachment to them, being that she felt so little for him, but she’d been in her confinement and too exhausted to offer much protest. Assuming she even knew about his presence, either by the loose lips of a servant or by an intuition granted only to the fairer sex, she hadn’t attempted to place any barriers between them. 

That was encouraging, at least. 

Their guests had left the day after Sansa gave birth, at Cersei’s insistence. It was odd to think she might have such consideration after only meeting Sansa the night before. Perhaps it was a sort of comradery amongst women. It was either that, or she’d reached her threshold for the embarrassment Robert regularly provided. Renly could only feign interest in their excitement for so long before he took the opportunity presented to continue his travel collecting the rents. Jaime made his exit at the same time Robert and Cersei left, offering little excuse as he trailed behind them, certain to remain near his twin. Stannis wondered if his boys would share such a strong connection in their adulthood as well. 

Knowing little to do with himself, Stannis spent the majority of the daylight out on the grounds. He would avoid his home to the best of his ability, lest he wander past her door again and hear more painful truths. Spotting her shuffling down the hallway in the dead of night had been quite the surprise. His feet stalled in place, all his muscles going rigid as he forced his eyes to blink and not simply gawk. 

“Evening,” she said simply through heavy breaths as she moved. 

“Dr. Luwin ordered bed rest,” he responded sternly, because simple greetings eluded him at that moment. Particularly if they required him to sound more polite than abrasive. Restating doctor’s orders offered him some small feeling of control in an encounter that he’d been staunchly avoiding. And it was useful information, really--or at least that’s how he justified it seconds after he said it. Did the woman have so little regard for the recommendations of paid professionals? Or the difference between suggestion and directive?

Irritation flickered in her eyes as she stared back at him. Stannis quickly realized his tone might have been a touch too commanding both for the situation and her tastes. Not so timid as to retreat, even in her weakened state, Sansa retorted, “Strange then, that it is walking that offers more strength than his prescribed bed rest.” 

Her hair was down in a loose braid, and she was wrapped in a shawl, her feet bare. It was clear that she’d not expected to be seen, her journey short and sly. Such independence demanded he press her further. “And it is on whose authority that you’ve decided this?” He asked, expecting her to defiantly claim her own. 

“My mother’s,” she answered--just as defiantly as he’d anticipated. “She birthed many children, and had known a great deal about these matters.” 

Of course. Lady Catelyn Stark had mothered at least five children, and not all of them female. Lord Eddard Stark had not seemed to care that his wife had done her duty by him, still freely enjoying his rights as her husband long after she bore him an heir and his replacement. Judging by Sansa’s beauty with an appreciation for the role of genetics, Stannis had no doubts as to why that might have been. The idea that a husband might want his wife for more than the progeny she could produce shouldn’t have been so foreign of a concept for her. Not with the way in which her parents had conducted themselves. 

That gave him hope, however small after hearing Daisy’s words. 

“Yes, five, if I’m correct,” he guessed, because he was willing to be a little less authoritative. He waited until she nodded her expected agreement before he asked, “Wasn’t their eldest a boy, and mostly boys after that?” 

“My sister and I came after my brother Robb--the oldest,” she corrected. “They had my two youngest brothers after us.” 

It wasn’t out of the ordinary that the Starks would continue to procreate beyond the first male child. Having two daughters afterward might have deterred further attempts at parentage. However, it wasn’t unreasonable that they continued to have their fourth child and second son. To insist upon a fifth child however, could only been attributed to passion. Stannis tried not think of his own parents having three sons, and what that most obviously meant. “That’s quite the lineage.”

Sansa peered at him, trying to decipher his thoughts, where his conversation was leading. “Yes. My parents’ marriage was…” Her eyes softened as she glanced off in the distance. “One of love.” 

_ One of love.  _

Oh how those words squeezed his heart. Despite how much he may have wished it, he couldn’t expect that was something they would ever share. She couldn’t even speak the word aloud without averting her gaze from his. Was a marriage forged in love with him so grotesque? Would laying with him for no other purpose but duty it truly bring her such shame that she couldn’t bare to look at him? 

She began to turn from him, and he wondered if their conversation had completed without his even realizing, too dazed by such a devastating blow. Instinct told him to let her go, but wanting forced the question to crawl from the back of his throat, “You named the child Brynden Cressen. For what reason?” 

Sansa stilled before slowly turning back to him. “My Uncle Brynden is an officer in the Queen’s Navy, much as yourself.” She paused to watch him register that fact. “He’s garnered himself a name amongst his men--the Blackfish. I’m told that it’s due to his strength and his cunning.” 

Stannis nodded. These were all things he’d been aware of, though how they applied to an infant, he wasn’t sure. 

Wrapping herself further in her shawl, her eyes grew wide as she said, “This child was not meant to make it, Stannis.” Her voice caught as she emphasized, “So small, so  _ unseen _ .” 

Quiet let that truth settle on him. It had only been three days, and already he couldn’t imagine his life with only Steffon and not Brynden as well. To hold one and look upon the other, or to lay them both down in the same cradle. 

Breaking through the terrible thoughts of not having Brynden, Sansa spoke with a proud smile curling her lips. “And yet he did.”

Yes, he did. 

Stannis considered the will and determination that Brynden emanated when he’d been presented to him, seconds old and taking the world by surprise. Warmth filled Sansa’s voice as she said, “It takes strength to fight for survival, and cunning to succeed at cheating fate.”

Never had more truer words been spoken. “And Cressen?” He asked, that name being the one that had startled him the most. 

Her smile turned from maternal to knowing. “Did a man of a similar name not mean a great deal to you at one time?” 

Stannis said nothing, unable to articulate how much that man truly had meant to him during a time that he had needed his support the most. How could she have possibly known that? Or care to honor it? 

Reading his mind, she said, “You spent seven months away at sea. In that time, I had only my growing belly and other people’s words to learn you by.”

Davos. Of course. 

He fought the urge to shake his head at the man, trying to force a feeling that wasn’t there. Stannis spent seven months at sea trying to drown out the hunger he’d had for her, and in that time she was taken by the ear, and bent to listen. Davos was well-meaning in his attempt to coax a fascination in her, though that did little to detract from the fact that it was misguided. Stannis would not accept an intimacy that had to be wheedled out of her. 

Unless…

Unless, of course, it was she that inquired upon him. If true interest provoked a curiosity in her, that could be the spark to a genuine admiration. He spoke barely above a whisper, fearing her response. “You asked after me?”

“Of course,” she replied on a soft chuckle. “I badgered the staff day and night asking for any news of you or your ship.” 

“You worried over me?” He asked, incredulous and far too cautious to accept the happiness seeping through the cracks in his hardened exterior.

There was a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks as she answered his question with one of her own. “Is it not proper for a wife to worry after her husband?” 

Stannis cleared his throat. For the briefest of moments he would have thought she were opening herself to him--fancying him even. 

That was absurd, them being so far beyond courting now. It couldn’t have been a blush on her cheek, but was instead possibly just heat from her sore, exerted body’s work to stand and entertain him in the hall. If he had any doubt to this assessment, her use of the word  _ proper  _ drove her meaning home.

Seeming to sense his disappointment, Sansa saw fit to fill the silence. “You’ve honored my father with Steffon’s name, and I likewise wished to return the gesture with Brynden.” 

Family. Duty.  _ Honor _ . 

Everything Sansa was made of. 

He was a fool to think her  _ gesture  _ was anything other than her loyalty to the Stark family values so deeply ingrained in her. All the time he’d denied himself direct interaction with the woman had not been in vain. After all, what good had their exchanged words done but confirm his suspicions? They stood close enough to reach out and touch each other, and yet they were both so incredibly far away. 

As if suddenly feeling guilty for paying only one son attention, Sansa mentioned the other. “I am told that Steffon may grow out of his coloration, if you were concerned.” 

Coloration? Stannis furrowed his brow. What else could possibly matter than what was between them? And what most certainly wasn’t... “I don’t understand your meaning.” 

She fingered her braid while the flush deepened in her cheeks. “His hair. I’m afraid he’s been cursed with a tinge of the Tully red, like my mother and I. Though, Dr. Luwin said he’s seen babies similarly colored that grow out of it in time.”

How asinine. 

How utterly and completely idiotic. 

Sansa was the only woman who’d ever affected his heart so deeply, and her heart would never skip its beat for him as his did her. She’d shared his bed and his home, birthed him two sons, both strong and determined, and insisted on living a miles away while under the same roof. It was maddening that of all the things she saved her concern for, it was the color of their son’s hair. Could she not comprehend the private hell he’d been relegated to from the moment he needed her for more than her ‘maidenhead.’ 

He fixed his stare on her braid to calm the rage in his veins. The unique copper glow of her hair in lamplight, mussed and pouring down over her shoulders was a memory that would torture him forever. This was all he had of her--memories. Their boy was lucky to share so much with his mother, even a likeness. Their children would have her eternal love while Stannis wandered the outskirts of such devotion. “There are worse things to be cursed with,” he responded in a low growl he hadn’t meant to make. 

She eyed him then, sensing a change in him that he wasn’t willing to explain.

Her silent appraisal was far too intimate an act for their relationship--their  _ arrangement _ . She had no right to whisper in her chamber over her lack of desire for him one night, only to look upon him as if his response was out of character the next. Who was she to claim any knowledge of his character at all? She’d made her feelings crystal clear when she separated their marriage so severely from her parents loving one. It was kind of her to care to name the child as she had, though it did nothing to sate him, wanting more than her kindness. 

“I am not so conceited that I am bothered by the color of my child’s hair,” he snapped, grinding his jaw almost before it shut. 

Sansa blinked back at him, her eyes wide with bewilderment. Before she could sputter a response that he’d likely not hear through the roar of rejection rushing his blood, he turned on his heel and all but fled the scene. 

 

 


	9. An Affair

“Has Stannis specified which house he’ll take?” 

The question twisted Sansa’s insides and she nearly choked on her tea when Margaery asked it. A quick glance to the beautiful garden that surrounded them revealed Daisy strolling down the path, pushing Steffon and Brynden in their carriage. The woman had been a godsend in caring for them, and Sansa would be forever grateful for Davos’ insistence that they employ his sister. It was as if nursing the boys helped her heal over the loss of her own babe. Sansa wondered if hugging them close helped relieve the pain she felt over her husband’s absence. 

It had helped Sansa. 

To a point. 

Snuggling her babies to her breast eased some of the heartache of Stannis’ avoidance, but it didn’t erase everything. She’d barely been married a year, and already she’d learned that there were some pains only a man could soothe. 

“Perhaps he means to stay here now that she’s free from her confinement,” Cersei answered for her in the silence. 

In honesty, no one knew what Stannis’ plans were. He’d been so stingy with his thoughts, so damned recluse. Her husband saw her sparingly, taking the majority of his meals in his study, dining with her only for dinner. He visited the babies at least once a day, though she pretended she wasn’t aware of that fact, fearing any involvement on her part might put him off his visits. Now that she’d birthed him two sons--an heir and a spare, so to speak, he seemed quite finished with her.

Lords owned many homes, and it was typical for them to take one and give their wives another to raise their children in. Dragonstone was Stannis’ country estate, though he had a townhouse in the city and she knew of a smaller seaside residence as well. He may have had more than she knew about, the subject never arising until now. Out of the three, Dragonstone was the most reasonable choice to raise the children due to its size, staff, and location. Though it would be Stannis’ choice in the end. 

Her lips pursed as she realized it was always the man’s choice. No one paid her needs or wants any mind, not before she was married, and definitely not after. Sansa watched her husband emerge from the treeline across the grounds, his rifle resting over one arm, and a stern expression worn on his face. Where was the man from the hallway, who listened as she spoke--truly listened? Who stole a kiss from her as if it he actually wanted it--even after she was with his child, his fingers daring to graze her so intimately. 

“No!” Margaery gasped, interrupting her thoughts. How far society had descended when one was scandalized over the idea that a husband may want his wife even after she served her purpose. She turned to Sansa, giving her a conspiratory smile. “Has he  _ visited  _ you?”

She should have lied. For, a lie would have been less humiliating. Perhaps she would have, if she had ever been skilled in subterfuge. Instead, Sansa glanced down, shame tinging her cheeks rose.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery whispered, her face softening as she reached for her hand in her lap. “It’s just the way of it.” 

Sansa’s fingers tightened around hers, loathing the pity her friend offered. She closed her eyes to stave off the tears forming. Cersei’s steely voice interjected from the other side of her. “Not always.”

Sansa’s eyes cracked open and she shot Cersei a hopeful glance. The woman was older, had seen more of the world and the people in it. Perhaps Margaery wasn’t the authority she tauted herself to be in all things regarding romance.

“Do stop dispensing false hope,” Margaery hissed. Sansa detected a sense of protectiveness in her tone as she said, “Men make arrangements--have mistresses, best she accept that now. She’ll be less susceptible to injuries of the heart later because of it.”

“My heart? Later?” Sansa asked, confused by her meaning, and not particularly appreciating the way she discussed such intimate matters so easily, as if her feelings could be switched on and off.

Cersei set her cup down, her calm a welcome contrast to Margaery’s passion. “And what of his heart?” 

_ Yes, what of his heart? _ Sansa wondered silently to herself. 

Margaery sighed, dismissing him so easily. “I’m certain it changes at each and every port his ship docks.”

Sansa gaped at her, shocked by such insinuation. Such candor!

“Men have all the privilege in this world, and they always use it to care for themselves. We never need take on that particular charge,” Cersei explained as she stared out over the field, watching her husband and brother emerge from the treeline behind Stannis, guns and game in hand. “And yet, we do. For the right one, we do.”

Sansa wondered who her beau was, knowing it couldn’t have been Robert she was referring to. The woman had admitted to affairs upon meeting, so Sansa was certain that the lusty look in her eyes had been the result of her reliving a memory rather than basking in her husband’s red and bloated features. The man she gave her heart to was Cersei’s secret to live with, though Sansa wouldn’t deny her curiosity over it. 

Margaery smirked. “Why, Cersei. I never knew you were such a romantic.”

“Precisely. You’ll notice how adept I’ve become at keeping my own confidence. You should try it some time, and save a new mother the burden of your opinions concerning her marital bed.”

The air grew thick with their mutual antipathy, settling over their little garden table, somehow keeping them seated. Cersei’s curled lips and tightly clutched cup warned that though she was a lady, she wasn’t above a more physical approach to discussions. Margaery likewise stiffened in her chair, her eyes narrowing. Sansa had the occasion to witness her slap and claw a girl who spoke freshly to her--though, that had been years ago, before they had come out in society. Surely, she wouldn’t conduct herself similarly now? 

Needing their hostilities to cease, and seeing that they both operated from their loyalty to her, Sansa drew a deep breath and spoke evenly. “If you didn’t think it wise for me to grow a fondness for Stannis, then why did you encourage his kiss upon his proposal?”

The venom drained from Margaery’s piercing gaze and her eyebrows lifted, her features turning gentle as she admitted, “He wanted you. I know he did. For more than convenience.”

Sansa wanted to protest, to disabuse her of that notion. What did Margaery know of Stannis’ feelings? She hadn’t spent countless nights alone in her chambers, faced with the bitter reality that Stannis wouldn’t ever knock upon her door. 

Again, Margaery reached for her hand, her voice sincere as she said, “You are my dearest friend. I wouldn’t have allowed such a match if I didn’t truly believe his heart was in it. I watched him, saw the way he appraised you. His looks were never cold and calculating, but instead...”

“What?” Sansa asked, needing to know now more than ever. 

“ _ Anxious _ ,” Margaery finished. Her forehead wrinkled as if she wasn’t certain whether it was the right word, but found it to be the closest she could come to what she’d seen in him. 

The tension slipped from Cersei’s shoulders beside her. “You would pay so close attention to a man as to take his nerves for love, only to turn blind to his tells and rely on rash assumption?”

Sansa watched the men stop at the carriage. Renly and Loras stood as close as brothers as they chatted to themselves. Jaime smiled politely at Daisy and Robert leered at the poor girl as if he would devour her right there in the middle of the lawn. Stannis reached down into the carriage with his free hand, forgetting the men around him as he gazed down to his boys. Sansa imagined if she were closer she’d see his fingertips gently trace their brows and his thumb run over their chubby cheeks. Brynden would squawk, showing him his mighty roar. Steffon would lay silent and watch him like a hawk as he did with everyone who stood before him, crying out only when hungry.

Stannis’ face was unreadable at this distance. Though, it was often so, regardless of how many of his features were in focus. Who knew what was in his head.

“Tells?” Margaery balked. “What tells?”

Yes. What ‘tells’ indeed? 

Sansa knew Cersei only bothered to respond to Margaery for her benefit because she turned to Sansa as she answered, “He may not have  _ visited  _ her in all this time, but he hasn’t exactly abandoned her, either.”

Her stomach danced at that. It wasn’t a grand gesture of devotion and desire, but it was something. He lingered. For whatever reason, long after Stannis could have left, he remained, sharing the same roof as her. 

“It’s for the children,” Sansa quickly denied. It was cowardice to shield herself with her babies, and she knew it. Yet, she feared allowing herself the pleasure of thinking he might actually have been at Dragonstone for her. “He loves them so dearly.”

Margaery followed her gaze over to the men. Stannis had finished with the boys and Daisy continued on her stroll, her step quickening as she passed by Robert. “Perhaps,” she admitted skeptically, eyeing Stannis to see something she hadn’t before. 

Sansa wasn’t sure whether to thank or curse Cersei for that. She was certainly grateful for the reprieve of Margaery’s intrusions, though the absence of them only left room for hope to bloom in doubt’s place. Hope was a flower that grew with thorns and sliced the fingertips of whoever dared reach for it. Sansa had been cut enough since she accepted her husband’s hand, and wasn’t so ready to suffer anymore. 

“How would you suggest verifying?” Margaery asked, suddenly donning her gardening gloves to hold hope for her. It must have killed her to ask Cersei’s opinion. Sansa had no idea how little the two women cared for each other until she witnessed their interchange. Reason told her that this could not have been their first encounter, both so rooted in the Ton, gracing her with only occasional visits whenever they were in the country. 

Sansa followed Cersei’s gaze to the men, her tea cup raised to them in welcome as they made their way around the back of the house to leave their kills with the cook. Stannis’ eyes were on her as he walked, and she felt her heart pick up it’s pace in her chest. Perhaps he wasn’t looking at her as she thought, but instead in their general direction. Cersei was acknowledging them, after all. It would have been impolite of him not to recognize that.  

“Sansa should do something to get his attention,” Cersei answered through her smile, her eyes tracking her husband and brother. “See how he responds.”

Margaery’s eyes roared with renewed life, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “An affair!”

“What?” Sansa gasped. 

“Yes,” Margaery confirmed. “You should take on a lover. Jealousy is an excellent motivator for a man.”

Sansa’s head whipped to Cersei, silently pleading for help. The subject of lovers was one they’d already covered, and Cersei knew her feelings on the matter. 

Instead of saving her from such a horrible notion, Cersei left her feeling dumbstruck when she asked, “Who were you thinking?” 

Unable to stop her jaw from dropping, Sansa gaped back at her. Slowly, she forced her mouth shut and was working the saliva needed to speak when Margaery said, “Loras is always looking for a new dalliance.” 

Loras! 

Margaery would offer her own brother to play secret suitor to Sansa--a married woman! These were the times that Sansa appreciated that Margaery considered her more friend than foe. 

“Eh,” Cersei made a slight sound of displeasure. 

“Do you find fault with my brother?” Margaery hissed. 

Cersei smirked. “No, of course not. Only his reputation for being a real  _ man’s _ man.” 

Quick to come to her brother’s defense, Margaery attacked Cersei’s, “And Jaime’s love of speculation hasn’t given the Ton lots to gossip about?”

Outrage flashed in Cersei’s eyes. “Don’t lash out against my brother because you feel guilty whoring yours.”

Margaery was about to rise when Sansa held up her hands. “Ladies, that is enough!”

They sat silently collecting themselves, indignant huffs of breath made their way around the table until everyone settled. Sansa knew she’d been passive for far too long. “I will not give myself to another man.” She flashed her eyes to the last place she’d seen Stannis, eyeing the lush green grass devoid of his presence. “Praying my husband might be affected by jealousy isn’t worth suffering through another man’s attentions.”

There. 

She’d taken a stand, made them aware in no uncertain terms just what she wasn’t willing to do.

It was Cersei that spoke first. “I’ve always found emotions to be quite gradient. Jealousy especially.”

Sansa cocked her head in question. 

“Oh my! Yes!” Margaery realized aloud, leaving Sansa to feel lost in the conversation again. She would have been upset about that, if she’d had been able to keep more adult company over the last two months of her confinement. It seemed excessive, but Dr. Luwin insisted his prescription of one month rest per baby birthed was the best practice. Having spent all her time with Daisy and her infant sons, she couldn’t be blamed for taking a little longer to fully comprehend the machinations of society’s finest.

Margaery explained, “You mean to imply that a little may go a long way.” As if that explained anything. 

“Yes,” Cersei confirmed. “In my experience, a man in love will bristle over the smallest of intimacies--real or imagined.”

Imagined.

Sansa started to understand her friend’s intentions more clearly. “You mean to say, that instead of taking a lover, I might  _ pretend _ ?” 

“I doubt you’d even need to do that,” Cersei replied confidently. Turning her attention towards Margaery, she explained, “If Stannis was as smitten as Lady Margaery says-”

“That was then,” Sansa interrupted her, hiding in the safety of doubt. “If Stannis had a fondness for me, that was months--a  _ year _ , ago.”

Cersei offered a patient smile, filled with warmth as she said, “I too have seen his gaze linger upon you longer than a man without interest would.”

Sansa froze at that, no words forming in her mouth. Cersei had seen it too? How? He was always rushing off, cutting their interactions to the barest minimum. He scowled all the times in between, and she had taken to thinking that the very sight of her offended him.

Though, he hadn’t seemed very offended that night…

Pursing her lips, she stopped her memories from carrying her away. Whatever they had shared, that was gone. It was anyone’s guess where they stood now. Would he leave Dragonstone and take to one of his houses now that he had the children he sought? Would he take a mistress as most men did? That was assuming he hadn’t already had one…

As much as Sansa loathed to consider Margaery’s words, it had been a year since he had carnal knowledge of her. It was unlikely a man would suppress his needs that long. 

Heartache worked its way down to bind her guts and force the lemoncakes she’s nibbled earlier to climb the back of her throat. Tears stung her eyes as she imagined him half naked in another woman’s bed, burrowing his face in her hair and moaning her name as he shared with this nameless harlot what he would no longer allow Sansa. 

“My lady?” Daisy’s voice interrupted her living nightmare. 

“Yes?” She snapped to attention, blinking back the sudden pain that gripped her. “What is it?” 

“The little lords.” Daisy smiled. “You said to call upon you when they hungered.” 

“Yes.”

Sansa made to stand and excuse herself when Margaery stopped her, asking, “Daisy?”

Daisy stalled, “Yes, Lady Margaery?” 

Margaery ran her finger around the brim of her tea cup--a playful gesture. “Do you find my brother handsome?” 

Daisy flushed and Sansa furrowed her brows, giving Margaery warning. 

“Well?” Cersei asked from her other side, supporting the indecent question. 

Sansa shot her gaze over to Cersei, glaring. Silently asking,  _ Et tu, Brute? _

Cersei’s smirk was her only response. 

“My husband may be away, but I am still married,” Daisy answered quickly, evading the question.

Margaery leaned in, her grin entirely predatory as she cooed, “Of course, Daisy. I meant no offense. It’s only that-” She paused, flashing Sansa a glance as she said, “Lady Sansa is under the misconception that she’s not to even take notice of the opposite sex, no matter how steadfast she is in her vows.”

Cersei’s hand touched to Daisy’s then, working in tandem with Margaery--her sworn enemy of only moments ago. “We who’ve been wives longer know the error in her thinking, don’t we?” 

Color rose in Daisy’s cheeks as Cersei soothed, “If the good lord didn’t wish us to look, he would have taken our eyes when our husband’s took our chastity.” 

Suddenly feeling the need to defend her loyal nurse, Sansa clenched her teeth as she said, “Strange he didn’t take our hands then, lest we ever touch another.”

“He wanted us to cradle our babies,” Cersei responded with ease, utterly undeterred by Sansa’s ire. 

“Well, if you’re asking,” Daisy swallowed back the apprehension that had been lumping up in her throat. “Lord Tyrell is quite comely.” Daisy glanced over to Sansa, as if she were drowning and looking for a life preserver to cling to. “Do you not find him so, my lady?”

Sansa eyed her friends as she saved Daisy from the murky depths of their manipulations. “Quite.”

When silence followed, Sansa pursed her lips and drew a deep breath. She knew her one word admission wouldn’t satisfy, so she pushed forward. “I’m quite surprised he’s not been snatched up by a clever lady determined to trap him, for how attractive his features are to the eye.” The image of Stannis bare-chested and leaned over her came to mind as she said, “He’s quite strong and well-defined--not a lazy lord at all, and his smile--when he deems to wear it, is quite enticing to be sure.” Heat rolled through her at the memory and admission and she pressed the back of her hand to her cheek to cool it as she brought herself back to the extremely disappointing present. “I do agree that Loras is handsome indeed.”

“My lady?” 

Sansa startled in her chair, shocked to hear Davos’ voice in her ear, interrupting the idle chatter amongst ladies. “Yes, Davos?” She asked, feeling her blush move down her chest, now heavy and aching. 

How long had it been since she’d provided for her sons?

How long had it been since she’d felt her husband’s hands upon her breasts?

Sansa closed her eyes to the questions that plagued her as she listened to Davos say, “My Lord has opened the parlour for guests to congregate while cook prepares the pheasants caught.” 

“Certainly,” Sansa responded, turning to face Davos. Daisy and the ladies she’d come to call friends rose from their seats, excusing themselves. Sansa was arrested by Davos’ deep chocolate-brown eyes, saying everything the valet was too well-trained to dare. 

Feeling the absence of everyone around them, Sansa said, “I apologize, I hadn’t noticed your arrival earlier. How long had you been standing there?” 

“Long enough,” he answered curtly. 

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning,” she challenged, because she was still lady of this house, and as dear as Davos was to Stannis, he was still a servant. Perhaps reminding him of that would soothe the sting of his judgemental glare. 

Davos straightened, squaring his shoulders. “In my experience, ladies fair best when they are careful in the counsel they keep.” 

He didn’t approve of her friends. 

She bristled at that. Who was he to tell her who was worth her time? 

“However well-intentioned,” he added, as if it would lessen the injury. 

It was strange. Sansa had encountered Davos many a time while Stannis was a way, though with her husband returned and roaming the grounds, it was as if she hadn’t known the valet at all. So devoted to his lord, Davos suddenly grew hard in all the places she’d once found him soft. She suspected it was his way of supporting Stannis to boycott of her, though in truth, she couldn’t begin to understand either man.

She would hate Davos for turning on her so easily if she weren’t grateful he remained at Stannis’ side. Her husband was stoic, but human nonetheless. Everyone needed company and he was no exception, whether he admitted it or not. 

Needing to bite back, Sansa retorted, “Yes, and in  _ my  _ experience, a man shouldn’t leave his wife unattended for long.” 

Lie. 

Complete and utter lie. 

As if she would ever do something so dishonorable.

After all, what experience did she have, but that of her friends? Sansa was not of their ilk, no matter how many similar patterns they wore, places they frequented, or people they acquainted themselves with. Sansa would never be as jaded as Cersei or as manipulative as Maragery. At least, she hoped not. 

Lord how she longed for the easier days of her youth at Winterfell! Her greatest concern had been the fabric of her gown and losing count of the dances she’d danced. What an innocent life that had been. Now there was only shame to be felt for how far she’d come, how desperate she’d grown. Her innocence completely lost to her, she bowed her head and asked, “Will you tell him?”

“That you have a fondness for Lord Tyrell?” Davos repeated, proving he had in fact heard at least the tail end of her private conversation, and she prayed it was only that. 

Sansa lifted her head to offer him a pleading look.

“No,” he answered. His eyes narrowed as he added, “I have no desire to hurt my master with such knowledge.” 

Before she could say anything, Davos had whirled around and hastened his step back toward the house, leaving her there. Slowly, Sansa rose from her chair, knowing she’d need to find Daisy and join her in nursing the babies before she made for the parlour.

Though the childish girl in her wanted to feign illness and avoid the rest of her friends' visit, she knew she must not. One of Stannis’ superior ranking officers was joining them for dinner and was due to arrive at any moment. By the time she finished with her boys, he would be there and there would be much talk if the Lady of Dragonstone had not appeared for dinner. 

Still, her heart hung on Davos’ words, one in particular-- _ hurt _ . 

Would the mere acknowledgement of Loras’ attractive features cause Stannis such discomfort as to declare it a pain? Surely in order to feel so injured, one must develop some truly deep feelings first? Had Davos just revealed her husband’s level of investment? 

Or had it merely been wishful thinking come to consume her again?

 

 

 


	10. To Provoke a Response

Stannis watched Renly shuffle the cards because his brother was one to watch for deception. Renly’s grin was unrepentant as he alternated taking from the top and bottom of the deck, boasting no little time spent in the gambling halls. He was the third born son with no claim to anything and no prospects for marriage because of it. While Stannis didn’t believe he’d act similarly were he in the same circumstances, he couldn’t blame the man for finding his enjoyment where he could. 

To give him some semblance of responsibility, Stannis charged him with collecting the rents when the time came. It was quite possibly the only thing Renly took seriously, though Stannis wasn’t sure if it was due to the air of authority that came with the task, or the feel of money passing through his fingers. He was certain Renly was skimming some from the top for his own purposes--the gentleman’s club he frequented. If he’d requested a larger stipend, Stannis would have approved it, but he never asked. He was also quite careful in how much he embezzled, never taking too much, and because of that Stannis allowed it. He would save his brother’s pride if for no other reason than the fact that while he was selfish, he wasn’t downright cruel or lacked the ability to exercise restraint like their eldest brother Robert.  

Stannis would be fooling himself if he believed for a moment the edge in his voice as he told his brother to get on with his card dealing was entirely due to Renly’s antics or Robert’s drunken slurs--or even the look of his superior ranking officer, Lord High Admiral Selmy. Despite the man’s rank, Stannis and he had shared many a casual conversation over a glass of brandy. War did that--blurred lines of hierarchy. The sea seemed to do it even more so, stripping officers of their rank as they stood alongside ordinary seamen sleeves rolled up and faces gritted against the harsh wind and rain, fighting the high waves while avoiding canon fire. On more than one occasion Stannis wished he had joined the army rather than the navy. At least if he had, he could maintain a sole focus on the enemy as opposed to the need to remain afloat stealing his attention away from warfare. 

The sunshine glistening over calm waters, dolphins chirping and swimming by, and the sound of his crew manning the ship, were what made him remain at his post. It wasn’t that he hadn’t a choice since he’d decided so long ago. It wasn’t a fear of disapproval and losing everything he’d worked so hard for, or even a concern that he might not be able to provide for his estate and all the people dependent on him. It was the sheer pleasure of keeping everything under his command in pristine operating condition. Should there be trouble, the knowledge that so many looked to him for guidance--had need of him--had him returning to duty time and time again. 

That was before Sansa. 

Before he was not only made a father again, but unhindered in the role. 

While he’d scarcely allowed himself to see Sansa enough to gage her feelings toward the more active role he took to parenting this time around, he hadn’t sensed any discontent from her. That alone was encouraging. It made him want to reward her in the only way he knew how, with a distraction from his presence and their children. 

The woman deserved a reprieve from the rigors of maternity. She’d spent two long months cooped up in her confinement. Robert’s remorse for him seemed almost genuine as he said, “Sorry old chap, looks like you’ll be stabling your stallion for a bit unless you find yourself a spare filly.” 

A mistress. 

Wonderful. 

Just the headache he needed. 

He’d had one once, after Selyse. Every kiss cost him a jewel or rich garment. He left the whole arrangement feeling worse than he had when he made it. The woman was beautiful in the ways society deemed appropriate, but he turned to her simply because she had noticed him. Stannis had forgotten her name the second time he withdrew from her and spilled into linens instead. He would have regretted the impersonal nature of their joining if he hadn’t learned so early on that it wasn’t he that she’d admired so much as his coin purse. As a second son, he was expected to take his pleasure in life, neither held in such low esteem as a third son, nor as high as a first. The girl thought she had landed herself the perfect arrangement when she seduced a Baratheon. It was unfortunate for her that Stannis found he’d rather unravel from his own hand than drape jewels around the neck of a woman he barely knew. 

Robert, conversely, cared not how many ladies in the Ton wore his tokens. The man even seemed to take some sick pleasure in it. Cersei wasn’t an imbecile--she had to know of her husband’s philandering. Surely it wasn’t only Robert’s poor treatment of her behind closed doors that had her looking so sourly in his direction, or sharpening her tongue on him when he was too drunk to land a blow. Stannis had distracted Robert from taking his rage out on the woman enough during their visits to know that no one shielded her in the privacy of their home.

Jaime passed by the table, looking down at Selmy’s cards before grinning at Stannis. The man liked to roam freely, taking no wife and barely staying at his own modest estate. He was wrapped up in various speculations and hadn’t been known to shy from a fight in the grittier parts of the city. Mostly, Stannis saw him at his sister’s side. Perhaps he was her shield--always present and at the ready to protect her from Robert. Stannis couldn’t blame him were that the case. She was his sister, and more than that, his twin--his other half. Each blemish on her smooth skin must have made the man see murder. Stannis would have wondered at the casual smile he wore as he lingered around the room, if he hadn’t already surmised the man wasn’t hovering so much as  _ patrolling _ \--looking for any sign of distress in his dear sister, ready to pounce in an instant. Life would have been so much easier for Jaime if they’d both been born men, but with Cersei being the weaker sex, it was his life’s charge to maintain her safety. Her being married to a man like Robert definitely kept him from resting on his laurels.

Stannis would apologize for his brother if he thought it would make any difference. It wouldn’t. These were the cards they were all dealt, and while Renly would forever be the playboy, Jaime the protector, Robert and Cersei the bitter couple, Stannis was left to long for a wife that deserved peace. 

Lady Sansa had suffered the loss of her parents, an indecent and entirely unromantic proposition and the full brunt of his desire one heated night that tore her innocence from her, with seven long months alone to follow, then an arduous birth of not one but two sons. He’d lusted after her before, and then saved her his feelings after. Now he only wanted her happiness. The poor girl had more than earned it after giving him the entire world. 

No, he wouldn’t make a fool of her by taking another nameless mistress, no matter how well acquainted he’d become with his own palm over the past year. Society may have suggested he make an arrangement to save her the headache of his unwanted attentions, but he couldn’t disregard the unease the very idea of another woman brought him. He knew there was no way, even if he closed his eyes, he could pretend any mistress he took was the woman he wanted. His wife smelled of lavender after her bath and lemon after tea. No rose water-doused mistress could compare to the scent that filled his nostrils each time they joined over dinner. No eyes were as bright as hers, nor lips as undeniably soft.

Thinking of Sansa’s beauty had him wondering why she was taking so long to join them in the parlour. Stannis hated having visitors, but forced himself to allow it as a way of lifting her spirits. Margaery playing piano, Cersei embroidering, Jaime patrolling, Selmy and Stannis’ brothers engrossed in a card game, were all for her. 

He understood infants demanded attention, though she had help. There was no reason for her to be so indisposed. She was so attached, and he supposed he would have judged her poorly for lacking adequate maternal instinct if she wasn’t. Their boys were perfect, and he felt a tinge of shame for begrudging her that truth, even for a moment. It was only that her smile was brilliant, and when shone upon him above the babies, even more so. 

Still, her absence was beginning to grate. 

He’d worked so hard to avoid her lone company that he found himself actually requiring the times he was able to spy her with an audience to maintain the necessary boundaries of propriety. Having onlookers ensured he kept a control on his desire, while also affording him the view of her beautiful features and the occasional insight into her intriguing mind. Dinners were only made possible due to the ample waitstaff and the great table between them shoving her to one side of the room and keeping him to the other. 

Before he could stew too long, she appeared in the door with an easiness about her face. If he hadn’t known she was nursing, he could have easily guessed by her expression. Nursing was a woman’s duty, though titled women were allowed to forego that burden. Sansa had taken to it like a duck to water, somehow seeing it as a privilege of sorts. She was nurturing their children. 

From the corner of his eye, he watched her take her seat opposite Cersei, leaving an end table between them. They gave each other a polite smile before Sansa opened a book to read, her place marker hanging from the brim, inches above her lap. The two women exchanged words here and there, though Sansa hardly looked up from the book she read. 

What was she reading that pulled her attention so? They had a room full of guests--guests he was suffering through, and she was more interested in her book than the company he allowed. Growing irritation distracted him from the low murmur of the game he was only mildly playing.

“Another song!” Loras called from the sofa where he’d been lounging, droll. “Please, Margy?” He asked, using his sibling familiarity with her to pull at her heartstrings once her song had come to its close. 

She smiled in a congenial fashion. “I’ll stretch my fingers a bit longer, if no one minds?” 

Stannis could care less for the background noise, only the way Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she turned the next page in her novel. Selmy cleared his throat and tapped his glass for another brandy as he waved his hand, “Please, continue, my lady.”

Carefully crafted dimples flared in Lady Margaery’s cheeks as she bowed her head. “As you wish, my Lord Admiral.” Her emphasis on the word,  _ my _ , did not go without notice. Stannis glanced over to Selmy, who tossed his drink back and gave the woman at the piano an appraising eye. It would not have bothered Stannis one bit to learn his superior had taken station between Lady Tyrell’s legs, as so many man before him had. He only wished to ensure the man knew her character beforehand, lest he find himself ensnared in a trap he couldn’t escape. 

Selmy had been around longer than he and was not ignorant to the ways in which his rank affected ladies who tended to care for that sort of thing--which happened to be every female alive. It was strange Sansa never seemed to give the man more than a polite smile, regardless of her status as Stannis’ wife. Admiration wasn’t a punishable crime for a woman, provided she never bare herself to those she idolized--were he not her legal husband. Was Sansa truly so unaffected? What affected her? A flicker of a memory of her back arched, naked breasts pressed into his chest as she moaned her pleasure, had his mouth watering. 

He eyed her again, guilty over such wicked thoughts. She remained seated in silence with Lady Cersei beside her, their minds trained to the tasks in their hands. Oh what it must have been like to work so independently while in the company of friends, seeing no need for idle conversation. As it was with men, socialization was an obligation one couldn’t overlook. When Stannis was younger, Robert told him it was the way of married men, which was why he’d avoided the noose of the wedding vow as long as possible. 

He was married to Cersei the next year. Her dowry had been substantial. 

Renly never minded such conversations, fluffing his feathers like a proud peacock for everyone to admire. Selmy knew his way around an interaction as well, toeing the line between reservation and fascination, depending on the company--the story he deemed to share or keep to himself. 

Loras was pleasantly aloof and managed to avoid many interactions by lacking anything to add to them. Jaime on the other hand, seemed the only man truly free of it, as he wasn’t married, or even courting. He also knew well enough not to loiter in the same place too long as to invite a questioning party. From time to time, he would stop to lean against the wall or prop himself on the back of a chair, sure to comment just enough to avoid notice.

“Quitting so quickly?” Robert drunkenly slurred once Lady Margaery’s song had finished. “Or are you just slow to warm, my lady?” He flashed her a not so subtle wink and Margaery hid the disgust from her face.

Cersei glared from above her needle point and before she could open her mouth to protest, Renly dealt him his cards, saying, “Oh, leave her if she’s tired.” 

“Indeed,” Selmy agreed. He then cracked a smile that would excuse his next comment as jest, though anyone hearing his tone or seeing the look in his eyes would know it wasn’t. “Unless you’ve mistaken the difference between a lady playing for pleasure and a hired musician playing for coin and demand.” 

Stannis had invited him because it was expected whenever he was in the country and because if he was forced to put up with his brothers, he would invite a man who could put a man in his place without recourse. Lady Margaery, however saw fit to please. “Demand?” She teased. “To think my playing is so sought after--the flattery will spoil me!” 

Her fingers fluttered over the keys for yet another song, soothing Robert’s hateful glare. Within another minute, Robert had already downed half his glass and Stannis’ eyes found Sansa again. Discarding a four of hearts, he thought of his small family and how far away his wife sat from his table. Though he wished her no upset, he was curious to know her thoughts on Selmy’s response to Robert’s making a buffoon of himself. Perhaps in time, he and Sansa would form enough of a closeness between them that they might silently commiserate over such family embarrassments. 

Her eyes stayed to her book and he wondered if she’d ever tear her gaze from it to notice him. What on the blazes was she reading? Random tidbits of conversation sounded in his ears, all battle strategies and current events. Robert liked to fancy himself a military man, though his time in it was quite short and even less memorable. Normally, Stannis would pay more attention to the way in which his brother attempted to boast, to better take pleasure in his shortcomings--so rarely afforded the opportunity. Selmy took no issue with highlighting the many that came into view. This time, however, Stannis was captivated by the silent gasp that separated his wife’s lips and reminded him of just how wonderfully she tasted on the few occasions he’d had to taste her.

“Don’t you agree?”

The question hung in the air and enough silence passed after it, that Stannis knew it had to have been posed to him. Tugging at the cloth around his neck, he searched for the context of the conversation to offer and appropriate answer. They’d been discussing strategy, and the food shipments for the men. Robert thought the best approach was to charge in and attack the war vessels head-on. It was the more experienced Selmy who suggested that instead they learn the supply shipments and snuff them out before they could make their deliveries, thus starving the men into yielding. At least, that’s what Stannis thought they were discussing. It was so very challenging to follow such conversation when his wife sat settled a mere four strides away, her breath hitching over whatever literature lay in her hands. He wanted to be the one to affect her so, not the latest serial from the local printer. Assuming that was what she was reading…

Searching for something to say noncommittal enough to save him the headache of differing opinions, but relevant enough as to avoid embarrassment over losing the thread of conversation, Stannis said, “Why, yes. Sometimes the only way to provoke a response is to hit where it  _ hurts _ .”

Just as he’d finished speaking that last word, Sansa’s head snapped up from her book, her eyes glittering bright as they locked with his. Her expression was unreadable, and he needn’t wonder if she’d been listening to his conversation, only what about what he’d said affected her so. What about battle strategy could possibly intrigue a woman?

Apparently satisfied with his response, the conversation carried on around Stannis and he was left feeling uncertain whether or not to inquire as to his wife’s sudden shift in attention. Feeling compelled to investigate, he tossed his cards down and motioned for Renly to skip him in the next deal. Slowly, he stood from his seat, ignoring Robert’s slurred protests and Selmy’s too-knowing eye.

Stannis was at her side in the span of a deep breath, silently hovering to look over her shoulder. He had meant to read a paragraph or two to discern the subject matter of the book and sate a curiosity. That was before the scent of lavender and talcum powder to filled his nostrils. She’d just come from the boys--of course she’d smell of them. It should have put him off, reminded him of a lowly nursemaid. Instead, it reminded him that while his wife was still so young and innocent-looking, she was quite maternal now. Mothers were experienced women. They knew the ways of man and wife, had taken the full length of their husband’s need deep inside and proven themselves the epitome of female by nurturing life with the seed given. 

Damnation.

How was it that the scent of something as innocent and pure as an infant drove him to the very brink of sanity, and left his cock straining painfully against the confines of his trousers, threatening to pop every button that reined it in? It was the knowledge of how infants were created that was responsible for such depravity. Damn Eve for eating that apple, and the serpent for being all too ready to offer it! 

“People often ask the subject of a person’s attention, rather than attempt such sly maneuvers around them,” Sansa said, slowly lifting her eyes from her book to look up at him. 

Stunned by the smirk on her smart mouth, Stannis fought the urge to do horribly obscene things to her naked body in retaliation. He was still searching for a socially appropriate response when she continued, “It wouldn’t interest you.”

“Wouldn’t it?” 

“It’s of the romance genre,” she explained, her eyes searching his as she said so. 

She was correct in thinking he wouldn’t be interested. He had no use for romance novels to remind him of what he was failing at on a daily basis. Clearing his throat to offer a response, he gave the expected sigh. “I supposed as a female you are required to enjoy that sort of thing.” He wouldn’t blame her for appreciating literature written entirely for her gender.

A fury ignited behind the ice blue eyes that frequented his most lust-driven dreams. She was offended, that much was clear. At what, he couldn’t imagine. He’d simply stated a matter of fact. Her tone was sharp, pressured through her polite smile. “ _ As a female _ , I face a great deal of requirements in life. What I find pleasure in, thankfully, is not one of them.” 

He could have sworn he heard Cersei snicker under her breath, though when he glanced her way, she hadn’t looked up from her crafting. A quick glance around the room promised no one else noticed Sansa’s ire. No one except Jaime who flashed him a canine before picking himself up from leaning against one wall only to swagger toward the next.

To hell with him and whatever judgements he was making. 

Stannis had only one concern--Sansa’s use of the word, ‘pleasure.’ Was she aware of how licentiously it oozed from her lips? The temptation it brought? He was quickly deciding a way to warn her off it’s usage, lest she give the wrong impression, when he noticed the object of her attention had not been he. Following her gaze, Stannis turned his head over his shoulder to the man lounging on the sofa behind him. Loras Tyrell. 

Had she been thinking of him when she suggesting taking pleasure? 

Many woman adored Loras for his looks, though surely not Sansa. Sansa who cared not for a Lord High Admiral. Not Sansa, the mother of his children--his own bloody wife! Jealousy shot through every nerve-ending in Stannis’ body, consuming the man until all he knew was a righteous rage and a primitive need to conquer. The very idea of Loras Tyrell mounting Sansa had him loosening his collar again and forcing himself to unclench his jaw. 

Loras reclined, waving for his glass to be filled, completely unaware of Sansa’s attention. Perhaps that ignorance would keep him from taking advantage of such desire. He could only hope, lest Stannis forever render him useless to ride a horse ever again. 

His wife may not have loved him, may no longer have any use for him, but she was still his. Head to toe, Lady Sansa Baratheon was his wife to have and no other. He never insisted upon his rights because he had self-respect and wished her willing. His restraint however, was not license for her to go galavanting off with another suitor under his nose. Should she need explicit explanation of that fact, he was only happy to oblige. 

Her tongue darted over her bottom lip, wetting it. It was so innocent and immoral a gesture all at once that his cock throbbed to think of all the places he’d welcome her to lick should she be so willing. He imagined her leaning back in that very chair, her knees spread, dainty hands lifting her skirts for him. How quickly raged turned to passion. 

Observant creature that she was, she must have noticed his feral gaze because her cheeks suddenly flushed and she looked down to her lap. Fanning herself with her book, she stood abruptly. Stannis caught her arm to keep her from falling when she lost her balance in such a swift and nervous maneuver. Any doubt he may have had as to her guilt was washed away as he considered the anxiety that unsteadied her. “Thank you,” she whispered, so uncharacteristically timid. “It’s stuffy in here. I need some air--a stroll in the garden will suffice.”

They could all do with a little air. Sansa--to remind herself of her marital vows and Stannis--to keep himself from dragging Loras out of Dragonstone by his ear. “I’ll walk with you,” he offered, because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and he needed to access the last vestiges of his civility before he surrendered to savagery. Although with the way in which his blood was rushing through his veins coupled with her admittedly sinful desires, he’d have her bent over and bare in the bushes like a heathen. 

“No, it’s quite alright,” she smiled politely, regaining her composure. He wished he could recover so quickly, unfortunately still so heated by the idea of taking her in the open air with the threat of potential witness. He was glad she denied him, however. Whatever scenario played out in his head would be less than probable, and he’d only make a fool of himself. He’d offered to escort her to steal her from her passionate imagination and because he was touching her-- _ still  _ touching her, and it was difficult to let go. Reluctantly, he dropped her arm, accepting her rejection. 

Strangely, she appeared slighted by him releasing her. She eyed him as she said with an edge to her voice he wasn’t expecting, “I wouldn’t want you to neglect our guests.”

She looked so hurt in that moment, as if his relieving her of his grip was done to discard her. It couldn’t have been further from the truth and he wanted more than anything to tell her that he couldn’t care in the slightest for their guests, not even his commanding officer. It was killing him not to wrap her up in his arms and force a comforting embrace, whether she could tolerate his affection or not. 

He only managed to temper that urge with the knowledge that she was only so offended because she was a lady and not use to such rejection--appearances were everything. It couldn’t have been because he denied her his touch, as if he were so near and dear to her heart. No, she hadn’t looked at him as she had Loras. Stannis’ affection was something she could easily live without--and had. It was her ego that had been harmed and not her heart. 

Surely.

His silence only served to further upset her, for she lifted her chin and raised her voice to be better heard. “Loras will accompany me, won’t he?”

Startled from his slouch, Loras rose to take her arm. “Uh...certainly.” 

It was no small feat to stifle the growl that crawled up Stannis’ throat as he watched Loras hold Sansa’s arm--exactly where his own hand had just been. Oblivious to his growing rage, sunlight lit their smiles as they stepped off the patio. She looked so happy and at ease on Loras’ arm. Had she appreciated it more when it was Loras holding her than he? Of course she had, or she wouldn’t have passed him up in favor of Tyrell in the first place. They were closer in age... 

Stannis stood vibrating in place, his rage growing too large for his body to contain. Robert slurred his name as he called out for him to join their card game again and Stannis barely heard the request over the roar of disquiet in his ears. A warm breeze flew in through the open door and on it was the soft sound of Sansa’s laughter. 

His fingernails bit crescents into his palm as he considered that while he wouldn’t burden her with the humiliation of his taking a mistress, she apparently wouldn’t save him the same. A small voice of reason quietly reminded him that Sansa was young and a woman--ruled by passion. It told him to forgive her this flirtation. Another, more heartbroken voice argued that she was his and if she knew nothing else in life, she should at least know that. Stannis drew a deep breath, deciding he could never forgive her if her walking with another ever took her further than the garden.

“Well, that went poorly,” said a voice in Stannis’ ear, interrupting his thoughts. He turned his head, scowling to find the source. It was none other than Jaime Lannister, pausing his prowl of the room. 

“I’m sure I don’t know your meaning,” Stannis replied impatiently. 

“Women like pretty things, do they not?” Jaime’s smile was as cocky as it ever was, but there was something akin to understanding in his tone and in his eyes. 

It was unnerving to realize a mere passerby could see so clearly the torment Stannis suffered. Oddly enough, it also offered some small comfort to think he needn’t struggle with this entirely on his own if for only just a moment. Wondering where Jaime was going with his commentary, Stannis raised an eyebrow in silent question. 

Jaime glanced to Lady Margaery, watching her skillfully stroke the piano keys like any other trained debutante would. “Loras is quite  _ pretty _ , isn’t he?”

Stannis would never have described a gentleman as ‘pretty’ but Jaime was correct in his assessment. The word fit the man much more than it should have. Self-consciously, Stannis glanced down at his hands, rough and weathered from hard work. No one would ever claim him, ‘pretty’ and if that was a quality Sansa desired in a man, she wouldn’t find it with her husband.

Jaime pulled a cigar from his pocket and held it up to Stannis in silent question. Stannis declined the offering, waiting for him to make his point. Jaime lit his cigar, smiling at his sister’s annoyed sniff before sending her scowl a wink in return. It wasn’t uncommon for women to express a distaste for cigar smoke. 

Were that the case, it didn’t seem to bother Jaime. If anything he seemed to take some pleasure in teasing his twin. Jaime puffed the cigar before he said, “A woman’s fickle nature can be a blessing at times.” He glanced over to Cersei, irritation plain on her face, before he finished, “And a curse at others.”

Stannis was growing frustrated with the double way he spoke. If he was implying that Sansa had developed an interest in Loras, he could save his breath. Stannis had noticed that quite clearly and the anger that drew every muscle in his body taut promised her fickle nature was more curse than blessing. Sensing his patience was growing thin, Jaime clasped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Pretty things go out of style, though my broker promises that the things deemed a necessity do not.” Again, he shot a glance to his sister, probably because she was a woman and he needed to best demonstrate the point of his next sentence. “Women  _ need  _ men.” 

Stannis cleared his throat, at a loss for words to that particular pearl of wisdom. “Mm, yes, well-” 

“They are quite forgetful too, did you know?” Jaime cut him off, determined to make his point. “Women.”

Cersei’s eyes flashed up to him as if in warning. Had she been following their private conversation? Stannis supposed so. The woman didn’t miss much. She likely couldn’t afford to being married to Robert. Jaime smiled back, unfazed by her eavesdropping or even Stannis’ possible discomfort at having the Lannister twins weigh in on his love life--or lack of it. 

It was with his trademark cocky grin that Jaime said lastly, “Often times, they require reminding of what they need.” He turned then and took a stroll around the parlour, sure to pass by Cersei, trailing a cloud of cigar smoke behind him before stopping at the card table and blending in as if he’d been apart of their game all along. 

Stannis stepped toward the patio door, watching Sansa and Loras far off in the distance. Perhaps Jaime was correct. The time had come for Stannis show Sansa that she’d married a man--not a  _ pretty  _ boy.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @Tommyginger for reading through this chapter ahead of time to help me catch embarrassing mistakes before they be made public lol :-)


	11. Deprived

It had been about a month’s time since visitors had been welcome at Dragonstone, and in the absence of such company the warmth and happiness of the estate had faded away. Sansa supposed she should have been grateful that the dreariness it held upon her arrival and initial months of virtually isolated habitation had not returned as well. Instead, the air held only unease and discomfort. Anxiety was somehow a step up from the morose. Beyond her time with her sons, it had only been entertaining guests that brought her joy in the presence of Stannis’ brooding. Since that had become out of the question, she was forced to look forward to the distraction of various errands and trips away to town.

How many times in days gone past had she wandered the halls with a hand on her growing belly, wishing that her husband--the sweet and gentle man from her wedding night--would return? Now, he was present and in attendance and she couldn’t have desired his absence more. 

He’d been hesitant with her before--when they married, when he returned. Though, not anymore. He’d humored her with guests that one occasion. No longer so nervous and on edge, he had become the picture of certainty. What he was suddenly so determined of, she couldn’t be sure. 

Stannis, she had learned, had been a stern man of routine and expectation. Should she find it difficult to count on anything in her life, she could quite soundly rely upon that fact. Shared dinners had become a part of the man’s schedule and therefore, likewise hers. She had looked forward to them at first, taking every opportunity to spend time in his presence and better learn the man she was forever tied to. It was his intensity and critical eye that defeated her and diminished any excitement she felt at the prospect of his company. 

Still, duty was duty. Sansa would give her husband no cause to complain if she could help it. 

That was, unless a handsome little boy was snuggled so soundly against her breast that she couldn’t bear to break him free from his latch upon her. One evening, the time had come for dinner when just such an instance arose. Both Daisy and Davos had been by to warn her to make haste, though none of the warnings meant much to her while she held little Steffon so close. Brynden had finished his feed moments before and slept soundly in his swaddle, hardly shifting in his slumber while in the cradle. Conversely, Steffon refused to sleep without the warmth of her against him. He had not caused any fuss, only kept his eyes wide open and sniffled when she pulled away. The baby had even finished feeding, though refused to release her nipple, nursing for the comfort of it. 

Sansa would not reject him for convenience or expectation. Stannis could hold his dinner or start without her, for all she cared. Her son had need of her, and she would always give him her time--especially when her husband had no use for her, only tolerance. She supposed that she should appreciate that about him, that he would feel so obligated to her after reaping the rewards of their union. By rights, he should have decided himself finished with domesticity and not forced himself to suffer her company ever again. 

Instead, she’d seen quite a bit more of him than she’d ever expected to. It wasn’t long ago that she’d wished for this, plotting with her friends on the best way in which to maintain his interest. Things had changed however, and to her surprise, he’d expanded their window of interaction. In the past, he would have feigned business matters, though now on numerous occasions he was lagging behind to share the meal with her, and would even occasionally spy glances of her from above his paper. 

Whatever his motive, she secretly enjoyed the attention, and even on some days wondered if there was at least some part--no matter how small--of him that might actually fancy her. Too embarrassed to think herself in such high esteem, she would remind herself that a lady too full of herself was as unappealing as the wrong pattern worn in an offseason. In truth, it was probable that Stannis only noticed her in order to make her the recipient of his poor mood--one she was starting to believe might be without end.

Stannis was a Rear Admiral in the Queen’s Navy and with that station came a certain degree of confidence and a commanding presence. He had shielded her from that at first, though it seemed now as though his true colors were showing. Perhaps his avoiding her so frequently at first had not been due to nerves or a distaste for her, so much as his attempt at saving her from his true nature. In the past month, any reserve Stannis shown was gone and the shy man who gave her space and time was no more. His opinion was now made known in all matters. 

Even hers. 

As early as her birth, Sansa had been taught that business was for men to manage, and the household was for wives to handle. To have him trouble himself with her dealings was most intrusive, and he appeared to know no limits. Had he been a bachelor so long as to forget this simple fact of life? 

To offer example, one day, the gardener lacked the presence of mind to refrain from asking her preference on the layout of the garden while Stannis was in the general vicinity. She shared an appreciation for Sweet William and her husband was quick to interject that it was ‘too dense’ a flower to be planted with any taste in a garden such as theirs. Sansa had never known a man to take any interest in flowers, let alone express a distaste for one so common. When she inquired as to why he lacked an appreciation for the flower, his reply was devoid of answer, and she was quickly given the impression that he might very well be jealous toward the flower for its name alone and the way in which she admired it. 

Lord above, if he were so jealous over endearments toward a flower, it was a wonder that he hadn’t disapproved of her affection for their children. It was maddening--truly!

Not two days past, Davos dared ask her how many candles she believed fitting to use for dinner. From his side of the table, Stannis declared that they would be using an additional candelabra at the table. Apparently, after all this time, he desired more light. Frustrated that he would undermine her so thoughtlessly, Sansa bit back a quip about his not being able to see properly might assist him in minding his own business. 

When her irritation subsided, she was left feeling suspicious. Stannis was a modest man--despite his wealth and position--and she would have thought if asked, he would decide they required even less than she deemed. Certainly not more.

Unless? No. It couldn’t be. 

Surely, Stannis hadn’t wished additional lighting to better see her.   That would have been incredible for sure, and completely irrational--the daydream of a girl yet to see her first season. One couldn’t mistake his sudden attention to detail for affection. Except, that was quite possibly the only way in which he would express such intimate feelings, being a capable man always in charge, and  _ stoic _ . These thoughts were becoming too much to take, leading Sansa to take her solace in the warmth and consistency of her son. 

Unfortunately, as she cradled him against her breast, her mind worked against her. She decided that the sudden interest Stannis took could only be to remind her of something she’d never be allowed to forget. From the moment she woke to the moment she fell asleep--Stannis was the master of this domain. This only made her wonder what would make him decide she needed such a reminder. What provoked his masculine display of dominance? 

_ Jealousy is an excellent motivator for a man.  _

Margaery’s words echoed in her memory. It was the advice that gave her license to make a fool of herself with Lord Tyrell. She had regretted it the second she saw Stannis’ crestfallen face, giving way quickly to an anger that rippled through his body, coiling him up tight. Her steps were quick and her smile forced as she escaped her husband’s wrath. She smiled through polite conversation while she walked with Margaery’s brother and wondered if Stannis’ outrage was due more to the rejection or the embarrassment of it.

He was well within his rights to be upset in both cases, though a shameful part of her wished he was more affected by jealousy than injured ego. 

Perhaps his vigilance this was the price she was meant to pay for her poor choice. Sansa set Steffon back in his cradle and righted herself as she quietly convinced herself that her husband’s change in demeanor wasn’t exactly unbearable. Though, it was growing tiresome. She was independent in nature, having not had her family around her in many years, and having had lived practically alone while her husband was at sea. 

Silently chastising him, she thought he would want a capable wife, being that his vocation took him far from home for long periods of time. Being so attached, involving himself in so many affairs, was sure to foster some sort of dependency in a lesser woman. 

Unless? No. It couldn’t be. 

It simply wasn’t possible that he would desire that quality in a lady. Would she know if he had? It wasn’t as if their time together was extensive and he’d hardly expressed his preferences to her. Sansa had easily deduced that he wasn’t pleased with her or their marriage--else he would have insisted on his rights by now, or at least offered her more than a scowl each time he looked in her general direction. Heaven forbid, he might actually even allow her to run the house without his oversight. 

Her insides broke at the thought that he just might be trying to change her. She stood frozen, her hand rocking the cradle as she considered what would happen if he succeeded in altering her--or worse, failed. Unhappy men never suffered such a state long, quick to remedy their malais by seeking what they felt was lacking. Margaery’s words began to hold too much stock as Sansa considered soothing discontent with mistresses to be the way of men. Her stomach turned at the idea of Stannis in the arms of another woman--one that was meek and mild enough for his taste. 

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and held herself. “No,” she whispered to herself. “This is ridiculous.” If Stannis had meant to tame her, he would have said so plainly. What did he have to lose in coming out and admitting that truth? That aside, the man didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and while he was quite proper, he hadn’t mentioned a disapproval of her more willful nature. Resolving not to allow her heart to twist her brain in another circle, Sasna turned to leave the nursery and startled at the sight of him looming in the doorway.

The faint ghost of a smile dropped from his face the instant he realized she’d seen him watching her. He stood straighter, his hand flattening over his abdomen. The man looked as awkward and uncomfortable as if he were a boy of eight, caught stealing sweets from the kitchen below. Compensating now for it, his voice grew stern as he observed, “You’re not at dinner.” 

“No, I’m not,” she agreed with the obvious. _ I dare you to change me. _

“We dine together,” he explained as if it was a pattern of behavior she hadn’t been privy to. 

How strange it was to find the surly Lord Baratheon who’d been such a strong and demanding presence, suddenly so disconcerted to have his routine disrupted so. All her frustration faded away and Sansa had to swallow back the feeling that his displacement was entirely  _ adorable _ . Men weren’t adorable, and certainly not an older established man like Stannis--an officer, even! 

Except that he was. As absurd as it was to think it, Sansa could hardly stop herself once the thought had taken root. It was with great effort that she hid the amusement from her lips as she agreed again, “Quite regularly, yes.”  _ Perhaps it’s you that could do with some change _ , she silently teased. 

Confusion furrowed his brow into a scowl completely devoid of actual anger. His eyes moved, scrutinizing, attempting to solve the puzzle of her words and actions not matching as predictably as he would like. Again, Sansa had to stifle a smirk,  _ May fortune favor your keenly observant eye, my lord _ . He was a brilliant man, renown for his strategic mind, and yet he appeared completely befuddled over the possibility that she may be late for dinner without there being any malice behind her tardiness. 

Her mirth evaporated into thin air as she realized,  _ Someone had to have hurt you horribly to tune your instincts so sensitively.  _ Guilt shot through her as she considered the way she’d slapped him with Lord Tyrell’s youth and handsome face. Sansa’s father had insisted she be educated, therefore she wasn’t an imbecile. Stannis was much older than her, and had lived an entire life prior to ever giving her a thought. He had been wounded in that life and in her naivety and desperation, she’d dug her fingers in that wound and caused him great pain for it. 

Old pain.  

It was why he was watching her so closely now. Not to change her. Not because he’d taken another in her place--she hoped… But, instead, because he was determining her potential threat. Stannis was controlling the degree of damage she caused, ensuring he could avoid harm should she carelessly strike again.

Damn it, Margaery! Why had she followed her friend’s advice? Why had Cersei supported it? Sansa drew a steady breath and forgave them both for their follies; there was no way they could have known what her husband had been through in his past. That had been her duty to learn and accommodate for. Whether or not he loved her, she had love in her heart for him and she would care for him to the best of her ability. 

His eyes moved slowly around her, staring at the cradles she stood before. Clearly deciding her maternal instincts could be the only possible explanation for her failure to meet his dinner time expectation, he cleared his throat and asked, “Are they unwell?”

To put his mind at ease, she quickly replied, “No, Steffon was quite comfortable and I found it difficult to put him down because of it.” 

Stannis took a hesitant step forward, eyeing her as he did, before moving to the side of the cradle to look in on the children, as if confirming her testimony. She would have been offended by that, were he any other man. His lips curled in pleasure as he agreed, “Yes, he does settle in quite nicely in the crook of an elbow, doesn’t he?” 

Surprised that he would admit such a thing to her, Sansa smiled gratefully. “Yes. He does. Unlike his brother, who tends to-”

“Stretch beyond the bounds of grasp as often as possible,” Stannis finished, his smile more pronounced now, though not enough so as to be easily recognized by any other. “Brynden is often quite difficult to maintain...much like his mother…”

Her eyes went wide. “Whatever do you mean?”

Gone was the pleasant moment, replaced by the steely reserve she’d become quite accustomed to coming from him. “You were expected at dinner, and yet you are caught by a flight of fancy and not where you’re meant to be.”

Sansa bristled at ‘flight of fancy,’ being that he was referring to the attention of their own children. Forcing herself not to hold a grudge, to remember his hesitancy, she said, “I apologize.” Then, before he could respond, she thought she might push him a little further than she normally might, convincing herself that it was meant to help more than to harm. While she would benefit from it, she decided that her actions weren’t entirely selfish. She dipped her head and concealed all the hope that blossomed within as she asked, “You would fetch me yourself?”

He paused, startled by the obvious meaning behind her question. Choosing to believe the more convoluted explanation behind her words, he shot back, “Do you question my constitution? Whether I’m capable of climbing the stairs to your chamber?”

Of course he would take her hope as some sort of slight. 

Of course he would! 

Frustration colored her cheeks. “No, my lord-”

“ _ Stannis _ ,” he cut her off to correct. 

Frustration turned to anger and she glared back at him, meeting the fire in his eyes with her own. He was wounded, yes--though, that did not mean he must lose all sense and reason because of it. Allowing herself to be corrected in this and only this, Sansa ground out, “Stannis.” 

His eyes widened at her tone, not expecting such ire from a lady. She’d feel poorly about that in the future, but not now--not in the present. Her chest heaving now, she controlled the volume of her voice as she snipped back, “Forgive my surprise over your sudden determination to  _ see to me _ personally.” 

There was an innuendo there that he was too experienced to miss, she was sure. Instantly regretting the way in which she chose to approach the subject of their celibacy, Sansa stared straight back at him, refusing to look away and let him think she was weak. Regardless of what he may or may not have wanted in a match, she was still herself and could not allow herself to change. If he took comfort somewhere else, well then, that would just be an injury she’d have to sustain. They’d truly be quite the match then, wouldn’t they? Two wounded souls tiptoeing around each other as they switched off holding sons to adore. That was a dance she could perform but would rather sit out. 

Truly, she knew it was foolish and stupid of her to hint in any way that she desired more wedding night company from him, not to mention the timing of such an admission was horrible. 

Stannis was either too good of a man to address her in that matter, or too thick-headed--she couldn’t be sure. Instead, he acted as if he didn’t understand what she implied at all, “Yes, well. Perhaps that’s because you’re perpetually unavailable.”

Her mouth fell open. Was he confessing to an affair with an explanation? No. She refused to think it. Forcing her mouth to close, she blinked a few times, retraining her thoughts. She would focus on the hypocrisy instead of the accusation. Until only recently, he had been the one who was always ‘unavailable,’ locked in his study or traipsing about their estate. The seven months he spent across a vast ocean was somehow less lonely than the time he was at home and kept as far away as the property lines would allow. “Am I?” She bit out. “Unlike yourself, my interests don’t take me far from the nursery, let alone Dragonstone.”

He scoffed, his expression turning bitter. “Were that true, you would not frequent the town so often in pursuit of your  _ interests _ .”

It was now her turn to feel confused. Sansa went to town to socialize and shop, to seek reprieve from the way he loomed over her. Things had been difficult when Stannis avoided her all the time, though now with him around, it was too much at times. Too often, his face twisted as if he couldn’t decide whether or not he actually enjoyed her company or was disappointed by it. There were times he appeared almost angry with how forceful he became with his opinion and need for space. The occasional break from his tendency to brood was most welcome. “I don’t understand your meaning,  _ Stannis. _ ” She was sure to say his name as if it was a curse. 

“When you leave,” he stared, stalling to control himself. He had done a poor job of it, as his words sounded like more accusation regardless. “You are gone at length.”

Not taking kindly to such insinuation, despite the fact that she had given him every reason to question and wonder with her walk in the park, she lifted her nose. “Apologies--again. One does lose track of time so easily when they are finally afforded the opportunity to enjoy themselves.” 

His eyes widened and she knew her words landed their blow. Sansa silently chided herself for hurting him after she had just decided not to, and then cursed him for riling her so. Attempting an olive branch, however small, she drew a breath and asked, “What is it exactly that you take issue with?”

She knew the answer, but hoped by asking, he would be forthright in his reply and they might clear the air between them. While she longed for the gentle man of her wedding night, and the passion that pressed hard against her in a library, she would accept at least a warm appreciation between parents. To hell and back with his frosty judgement and lukewarm civility. “Why is it, that I can’t utter a single word that won’t upset?” She asked with more vulnerability than she had intended. 

He must have sensed it in her because he tensed. Whatever he thought of her: cold, careless, self-absorbed--he had clearly not anticipated such onus. His eyes softened only slightly, his voice quiet as he admitted, “I have returned home, and my wife makes it a point to be anywhere but.”

Sansa swallowed the truth in his words. She understood all too well how it may have looked that way to him--how it must have felt. Women may have been the weaker sex, but Stannis was proving with each private word that men might be the more sensitive of the two. Honesty was on the tip of her tongue, _ It’s easier on the heart to avoid the man you love if he wants nothing to do with you _ , but she tucked it back and searched for a foothold in the conversation. It wasn’t to win--not to come out on top of their moment, only to survive it. “My decision to explore is not meant to be taken personally, only to keep myself entertained.”

“Entertained?” 

“Why, yes.” Stumbling for an excuse, she drew her attention to what other women her age might care about. “We haven’t had our share of parties and I find myself growing quite bored in the country. A trip to town is only a break in the mundane.” 

She winced the second she said it, not meaning to imply that she disliked living at Dragonstone with him. It was simply the most believable excuse and the most readily available.

“A break in the mundane?” Stannis tilted his head in fierce question, not appreciating her excuse. “Tell me, is only the Tyrell estate that satisfies your need for  _ entertainment _ ?” 

“Why do I feel as though you are questioning my intentions?” She asked, defensively, knowing the answer. Sansa had given him every reason to question, her acting otherwise was a petty attempt to save her own reputation and standing with him. 

Not backing down as he might have in the past, Stannis stood his ground. “Perhaps it’s because we’ve spent so little time together that it’s impossible for me to glean your intentions. I know so little of you.”

Had she not just been thinking the same of him moments before be found her?

It was preposterous, and entirely true. However little they knew of each other, they shared so much. A home, a life, two beautiful boys that they both adored. If they had no other reason for trust and respect, they had that. Desperate to remind him, she testified, “I’ve never scorned you--never once. I’ve taken on your estate, birthed your children, and maintained my vows. You’ve watched over my every waking moment to assure it. Do you still feel you have cause to doubt me or my intentions?” 

He turned away then, feeling his own sense of guilt at her offense. His voice grew to gentle appeal, “I’m merely acknowledging the fact that we aren’t well acquainted, even after all this time.” 

Sansa wasn’t sure what hurt her more, the truth or the fact that he would so easily put voice to it. His inattentiveness had been a shame she suffered silently. No wife wanted to admit such failure as a husband’s indifference. Tensing with a pride she was far from feeling, she insisted, “From the moment I gave you my hand, you’ve known where to find me, though I can’t say the same for you.” 

There. 

If he would speak so easily about such painful realities, she would ensure their fight was a fair one. 

His huffing and fuming had him pacing a couple of steps in either direction as his mind worked over her words. He acted as if he were guilty of a greater crime than she’d implied, and she fought the tremble of her nerves for it. The last thing she needed was for him to see her shaking like a leaf as he forced the beast within to calm and heel. Finally, long after an appropriate time to respond, he lifted his head and scowled as he asked, “So what is it then? What will appease?” 

“Pardon?” She asked, not understanding. 

“Is it a dinner party you’re angling for?” He spat. 

He had believed her when she said she was bored. Drat. She would now pay for exaggerating a small truth in an attempt to ease herself out of their difficult conversation. He had to have known her excuse was flimsy, but he chose to give it credence. Perhaps he was now looking for an escape? 

If so, he was doing a marvelous job of it. How entirely male to oversimplify things and try to place a bandage on a situation. Sighing to herself, Sansa decided to give him what he wanted. “Would it be so far-fetched of a request?” 

His silent scowl said he didn't appreciate her question. It was because of that very scowl that the defiant bone in her body rang and she couldn’t quiet it, needing to challenge him. “Unless, of course, you have a good reason for depriving me?”

If she hadn’t set him off before, she certainly had now. Filled with indignation, he growled, “I’ll do you one better than a borish dance or proper dinner--wouldn’t want you to feel  _ deprived _ .”

Sansa winced at his ending emphasis. It would have been prudent to retreat, to bow before his emotions and make excuse for her impertinence. She was in too deep however, and with her feet barely touching the floor of the ocean that surrounded and carried her, she remained. Watching and waiting. 

His eyes were piercing, his lips pursed. “In one month’s time, we’ll host a masquerade.” 

It was then that the current finally lifted her feet from the ground and forced her to suspend there before him, listlessly. She said nothing as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the nursery.

_ A masquerade? _

How frivolous and gauche. How utterly unexpected and entirely oppositional. 

Let no one think Lord Stannis Baratheon didn’t provide for his wife. 

Sansa supposed she should have been charmed by that, and perhaps she would have, had he not called over his shoulder, “Dinner is growing cold!” 

Apparently, he’d still meant to share a meal with her, even after their heated words. That had certainly been a change--in the past, when he exited, he’d done so alone with the expectation that she not follow. Sansa did her best to conceal the small smile that grew as she descended the stairs to follow. 

Dinner had been mostly silent and filled with etiquette, though she couldn’t have been more pleased to be sharing it with him. If for no other reason than the acceptance she felt from being allowed to. As soon as their meal had concluded, they both retreated to their opposite corners of Dragonstone as was familiar and safe to them both. Sansa had just begun to accept that Stannis’ declaration was made in haste and would be retracted at the next available moment when Davos arrived at her door bearing a gift. 

Sansa opened the box to see a diamond necklace with sapphires resting elegantly on the black velvet. Unable to tear her gaze from how beautifully it sparkled, she heard the smirk in Davos’ voice as he explained, “My lord wishes to recognize you during the festivities.” 

 

 


	12. Stunning in Sapphires

In a sea of pearls, she was wearing diamonds. Though it was not the diamonds that caught his eye, arresting him mid-stride, but instead the glow that emanated from his wife. No woman since Eve had ever looked so stunning. 

It was not, however, her perfect symmetry that enhanced Sansa’s appeal, so much as her single act of compliance. It should not have caused his blood to rush so, and yet it did. Her willingness to drape herself in jewelry of his choosing fed a deep seated need to possess that could only be understood on a primitive level. 

Perhaps the animal masks they donned were going to his head, or the single glass of brandy he allowed himself while speaking with Selmy moments before, but Stannis was overcome with a sense of prideful ownership. It was hardly meant to be crass or cruel as some men were to their wives, but instead the purest form of devotion. They shared children--blood and bone. She was his mate, whether only in body or in soul as well. Only time would tell. Her accepting the truth between them only further fired his loins. 

To calm the longing hardening beneath his linen, Stannis allowed a sliver of doubt to creep into his assessment of the situation. One could argue she hadn’t worn it to please him, but instead simply because she was female. As Jaime Lannister reminded him, women loved pretty things. Perhaps, she merely chose to wear his gift because she knew the necklace was superior to every other shiny bauble she--or even her friends, owned. Though, were even that the case, by doing so she’d recognize that he was in kind superior to any  _ pretty boy _ she encountered. 

Lord Tyrell had taken a couple turns through the ballroom, and Stannis was quite pleased to see that Sansa had not once lifted her gaze to admire his form. In fact, in the month since Stannis’ heated words with his wife, she hadn’t left Dragonstone for any other destination but Sunday sermon, as was expected of every respectable parishioner. Stannis hadn’t meant to keep her locked away, only from Tyrell. If he could, he would have had the Tyrell name stricken from invitation lists from now until Loras died, either from old age or garroting from a jealous husband. 

Renly would never allow it, however, at least not without pouting and bemoaning the exclusion of a very dear friend of his. Then there was Lady Margaery to think of. While Stannis had never found himself fooled by her wiles, the woman hadn’t wronged him. If anything, she had been instrumental in convincing Sansa to accept his proposal. 

No, he wouldn’t punish her for her brother’s crime of beauty.

Stannis stifled a sneer, no longer knowing any rational need for it. Sansa kept her distance from Lord Tyrell, sipping her glass of sherry, huddled deeply within her circle of acquaintances. He couldn’t have been more pleased with her lack of response to the man’s natural charm, or with the way in which she conducted herself as lady of his house. 

Not only had she been acting the part, but she more than looked it as well. 

Her mask was one of wolf’s fur, mostly white with a tinge of rust and grey along the edges. It was much more feral than that of her peers, lacking in glitter and gold. The mask-maker afforded the material to speak quite elegantly for itself, her cream colored dress bordered in a thin bolt of fur to match her mask. She was the Lady of Dragonstone, wife to a decorated officer, and mother to two Baratheon sons--and yet, aside from the necklace he gifted her, she dressed herself so classically as to be confused with modesty. Which her gown most definitely was not. 

Modesty would require her plunging neckline to rise much higher, and her sleeves to cover her shoulders, rather than reveal them so perfectly. Seeing how wonderfully his necklace lay around her neck, bent over her collar bones and dipping down the valley of her breasts had Stannis salivating. What he wouldn’t give to trace those lines with his tongue…

It was fiendish to think, and yet he no longer seemed capable of stopping himself. Especially since observing how easily she spurned Lord Tyrell baring his teeth proudly and dancing circles around his partners. Sansa was his wife, and for the first time, Stannis truly felt as if she might fancy that fate.

She had accepted the fact of their marriage almost immediately, having done her duty many times over in meeting him at the altar, inviting him inside her, and bearing his sons. She hadn’t accepted the fate of it, however. Not yet owning what it truly meant to one’s heart. How could she? He certainly hadn’t. What other reason could he possibly have for running off to sea? 

Yet, there she was, the center of adoration, imbibing a careless drink and giving no other man notice. His eyes locked with her across the crowd, her soft blue absorbing his bright brilliance. As if lacking all autonomy, each foot lifted under her gaze and lead him through the bodies that stood between them. Her ladies dispersed, though her lips never moved to dismiss them. 

Fate. 

He was standing before her within four beats of his heart, the pace picking up swiftly. She sucked in her bottom lip, her gaze lifting from his chest to his face. Stannis decided she must have appreciated her view, for there was a flush in her cheeks that rose high under her mask. It was only then that he remembered wearing a mask of his own. Having been completely lost as to what he might use as costume, Stannis enlisted the aid of Davos who suggested he dress as a stag. The man said it would denote his merits as a serene and just lord, while also recognizing that he was quite a powerful and virile one. 

“It is a pleasure to see you...” she hesitated, waiting for him to introduce himself, her smile polite. 

Stannis froze. She didn’t recognize him--didn’t know who he was to her. Of course she didn’t, and why would she? She hadn’t given him any token to carry, nor had they discussed their choice in apparel prior to the event. Oh hells bells! It was a wonder she wasn’t excusing herself from his presence immediately, not wishing to be caught conversing too long with any man but her legal husband. 

It was then that something occurred to him; she didn’t know who he was and yet she wasn’t making any effort to distance herself from him. Laughter and music, witty repartee and drunken indiscretion surrounded and swarmed them as he considered her presentation. Balls were held out of obligation, filled with rules and great expectations, though masquerades were a different breed of ball entirely. They were an escape from all that was expected and endured in polite society. Wearing a mask allowed one to live outside of the life they’d been assigned upon birth. On these nights, a person could laugh louder, speak candidly, and flirt freer. 

Perhaps Sansa felt the need to take advantage of this new found freedom. She said before that she needed a break in the mundane, and speaking to strange men without recourse definitely qualified. That was especially true for married ladies and new mothers.          

“If I might say,” he started, clearing his throat. He would avoid an introduction and share this opportunity with her. “Your necklace is quite dazzling.”

His eyes drifted down to the necklace and the ample bosom that bordered it. Gloved hands touched over the jewels, her voice light and pleased as she said, “Thank you. It was a gift from my husband.”

Stannis grinned, favoring her mention of him. “He has exquisite taste.” 

If Sansa had meant to lead a double life for the evening, admitting to a husband would surely put a damper on things. Perhaps it meant she was only looking for some light attention and nothing more. It wouldn’t be so outlandish of a notion when one considered that she’d not had the pleasure of being courted before he was claiming her his. Batting her eyelashes for gentlemen’s compliments was hardly a punishable offense, provided that was the extent of what she desired in a stranger’s company. 

“That is without question,” she agreed.

“You’re so certain?” He asked, wondering where such confidence came from. And absolutely adoring every bit of it. 

Sansa’s hand fell from her necklace and she lifted her head to better look into his eyes. Her chin appeared so small, sticking out proudly from under her mask. Wolf fur surrounded her gaze, glittering behind the mask. He dared any red-blooded man not to fall prey to those eyes. He was her lord and yet somehow he was completely at her mercy. Not for the first time, he felt as if she might swallow him whole if he wasn’t careful. 

Pouty lips parted to tease, “Why, yes. Of all the ladies he could have proposed to, he chose me.” Her hand reached for his arm, resting gently over it. “Surely that is evidence enough of his refined palate?”

“Indeed,” he agreed, unsure if his chest swelled more from her words or the feel of her delicate fingertips resting over the cuff of his coat. She spoke so highly of him, her husband, all the while blessing a stranger with her touch. What was this mania?! A quick glance over to her other hand showed her carrying a wine glass. How many times had it been filled for her? 

Before he could fret long, her hand shifted and she turned, linking her arm in the crook of his elbow. How brazen. She was completely and utterly drunk--there was no other explanation for such behavior. Any moment now, she would stumble and fall over herself. He would of course have to play the gallant knight and escort her to her chambers as discreetly as possible, lest she embarrass herself more. First thing in the morning, while her head pounded and her stomach churned, he would lay into her for her poor choices. This was not how the lady of Dragonstone-- _ his _ lady, conducted herself at a party.

“Are you upset, Stannis?” 

He stilled at that, all thoughts screeching to a halt while he glanced around himself to discover the source of the inquiry. Partygoers passed him by, smiles on their faces, oblivious to anything but their own hedonistic pleasure. Only the woman beside him peered back, studying his expression. 

“You bristled…” she whispered, the color drained from her cheeks. “Was I too forthright?” 

Stannis stared back at her, flabbergasted. She had said his name as if she knew it had been him all along, and he was quickly realizing that perhaps she had. Again he was filled with a warmth that only she seemed capable of providing. Before he could say as much, her arm began to pull free from his, taking with it the heat that he was fast growing accustomed to. 

“I apologize, my lord. I thought because you gave me this necklace and this evening…” She stopped herself short and dropped her gaze as if she could no longer bear to look upon him, her head shaking in silent admonishment. The fact that she had reverted back to ‘my lord’ did not escape his notice either.

Stannis caught her hand before it managed to slip away entirely, and righted it, refusing to relinquish her intimate gesture. “There is no need for apologies, Sansa.” While she hadn’t made to move away, her expression remained doubtful. “I was simply surprised by your familiarity with me, considering the dress for the evening.”

He watched the cogs in her brain work to discern his meaning and then her mouth opened in astonishment. “You believed my teasing was true, that I was unaware of your identity! Because of a costume!”

He had already said as much. A small smile spread across his lips as he asked, “How was it so apparent that it was I that stood before you?” 

She chewed the inside of her lip and a deep blush rose over her. It was clear that she didn’t wish to reveal how she had been able to determine it was he that approached her, which only served to make him all the more curious. Stannis gave her hand a tender squeeze, encouraging her to put voice to her secret thoughts. 

“I-I would know you anywhere, Stannis.” She sounded so timid, her voice quiet with a tinge of something else. If he was to guess, it almost sounded like guilt. He hardly had the opportunity to wonder on that before she offered him greater explanation. “If not your style of dress, then easily in your proud posture, the confident stride in your gait...your  _ scent. _ ”

Shocked by that admission, he forced himself to remember that though he wore a mask to conceal such an expression, he was too good of a man to outright gape at the woman beside him. “My scent?” He repeated in a low conspiratal way, barely believing she had dared to admit it or that he was even repeating such a confession. 

Her lips quirked in appreciation. “Citrus and sandalwood. No other man wears that combination--at least, not as effectively as you do. Most lords douse themselves in excess of rose and lavender until recognizing one over the other is impossible, which is hardly appealing.”

Stannis chuckled at that, forgetting to control his smile, and for once not feeling as though he might need to. She was stirring something inside him as she tended to do, and he was finding himself fast losing his reserve. Her treasuring his scent spoke to that baser self that writhed beneath his gentlemanly exterior. 

Ladies were expected to feel an attraction toward their lords for their ability to provide and their standing in society. Younger ladies, in their first seasons were forgiven their romantic minds, taking notice mostly of a suitor’s fashion and physique--their parents tasked with the careful observation of his annual stipend. In other circumstances, a lady might find herself cherishing a man’s various extracurricular skills such as hunting when in the country. (Why else would Stannis make it a point to hunt each afternoon he learned she would be taking her tea in the gardens?) To feel inclined to something as personal as his scent, verged on immoral. He could understand now why it was guilt that touched her words, and he hoped she hadn’t suffered greatly for it.

In truth, he couldn’t have been more delighted to hear her share such a sentiment.   

It wasn’t polite or expected, but instead a little secret she carried about him, and she did so only because she wanted to. There was no additional benefit for her to feel such a way, therefore it was a wonder that she allowed any feelings to develop at all.

“Should I be offended that you required a necklace to identify me?” 

Stannis froze at the question, his thoughts stopping suddenly. Had he seriously required the necklace to recognize her while she knew him by careful study, it would have been utterly unforgivable. That was not, however, the case. He knew her the instant she appeared in the ballroom, both by her step and her smile. The blazing copper locks she had bound artifully to her head were helpful in verifying as well. He had only offered the necklace after Davos had suggested it, deciding not to disregard the idea, and instead use it as an opportunity to offer her a gift. It had been late coming, though after she’d birthed him twin boys, Stannis felt overwrought with gifts and wanted to offer her something in return, knowing it would never equal to what she had given him. He’d talked himself out of it on numerous occasions, deeming it too foolish of a gesture to be considered sincere. And yet, this provided him the perfect opportunity. 

It also allowed him to observe how willing she may or may not have been to satisfy his solicitation. Sansa could have chosen another piece to wear, leaving him in the predicament of wondering whether it was due to her wish to remain anonymous or to reject him entirely. Thankfully, that was not the case.

Still, it had taken her great courage to admit as much as she had. Perhaps it was time that he meet her out on that fragile limb and share the risk. “I did not require a token, only an excuse.”

“An excuse?” She asked, her eyes sparkling back into his. 

He held his breath as he said, “To give you a gift.”

She swallowed and averted her gaze. 

Had he been too forward just then? Surely the things she had said had been more so… Stannis furrowed his brow in consternation, trying to see where he’d assumed incorrectly when she asked beside him, “Why sapphires?”

He glanced down at her necklace, and the rosey flesh that surrounded it, imagining--no,  _ remembering  _ it to be quite soft and supple. His answer came from the back of his throat, deep down where raw desire overpowered the etiquette and discipline required in all gentlemen, “To compliment your eyes.”

“That’s kind,” she said on a sigh that sounded almost disappointed. 

Prickling suddenly at the idea that his consideration was in any way a disappointment to her, he clenched his jaw and asked, “Was that not the reply you expected?” 

Quickly sensing his sudden offense, she scrambled to reply. “I hadn’t any idea what to expect. Though, I rather thought you might have selected sapphires to remind me of yours.”

“Oh…”

“They resemble quite nicely,” she added, possibly unaware of how easily her words affected him. 

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered, at a loss as to how to best respond. Was there any appropriate response for such a situation? She had taken an interest in him, knew his walk, his scent, and his eyes. More than that, she’d just admitted to wanting a reminder of his features. 

For what other conceivable reason could this woman-- _ his _ wife have for expressing herself to him in such a manner?

It would have been safer to retreat, accept the gains made and quit while he was ahead. It was entirely prudent to excuse himself and allow her to enjoy the rest of the evening. It was crucial that he treat the ground he had gained with the utmost care. 

“Of course,” she said, as if it were all so obvious. 

Stannis finally considered that it just might be. He was a man who craved a woman, who in turn shared an attraction for him. No one was at odds with their feelings, but he himself. Not society, their family, or even the lady herself. Only he. 

It was at that very moment that he decided, to hell with such trepidation! Stannis had always played his hands carefully, and what had been his reward for it?

Fear, doubt, and brutal celibacy. 

Refusing to face another day, or even another hour of such cruelty, Stannis drew a deep breath and resolved to have his wife as he had on his wedding night, or God could relieve him of the urge entirely!

The words were stilted and disjointed, though he managed to push them out regardless. “Would you...like to, perhaps…” He paused, rallying his courage to finish. She smiled back at him, innocent to his libidinous thoughts. If he didn’t finish then, he never would, so he charged ahead. “Like to find a more private place?” 

His beating heart filled his ears as he stared at her, feeling each nerve ending in his body fire in anticipation. Her expression changed as she understood his meaning, a frivolous smile giving way to dilated pupils. Though some thirty families filled the ballroom, all talking and dancing at once, her quiet voice was the only one that sounded above the pound of his circulatory system. “I’d like that very much.”    

  
  


 


	13. Shared Indiscretion

Faces lined the halls of his home, making the rooms once large, now seem so unbearably small. His hand gripped hers tightly, refusing to lose her as he dragged her through the crowd. Stannis feverishly searched for any uninhabited place he could find, taking long determined strides. Sansa laughed behind him, offering non committal words to guests in passing. Let her play the considerate host. There was no time for that now, not when he was mere heartbeats from having her lips against his. 

Salt and pepper grey hair caught his eye off to the far left side of the hall that he recognized instantly as Davos. It took only one meaningful look for the man to step forward and nod his head toward the door he stood beside. “There is no one occupying this sitting room, my lord. Should you require reprieve from socializing,” he explained, somehow knowing Stannis’ mission. Had he been guarding the room all along, keeping it safe from guests?

“Oh, Davos!” Sansa exclaimed behind him. “Pity you are working on a night such as this.”

Davos bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve, my lady.” 

“Surely not!” She chuckled. “It would please me to allow you leave to enjoy the festivities.” She turned to Stannis then, her smile unabashed. “If my lord  _ husband  _ takes no issue, of course.”

Davos knew better than to allow himself be a subject between them. “I wouldn’t dream of-”

“Yes, go on,” Stannis instructed quickly, taking the opportunity to both excuse his company, and satisfy his wife’s charitable urge. 

Davos met his eye. Though he must have seen the wild need that glimmered there, Davos was too good a man to say. He cleared his throat, attempting to hide his smile and said, “Very good.” 

If he left, Stannis hadn’t noticed, already pushing the door open and pulling his wife through it behind him. Turning on her quickly, he stilled. Her eyes were large behind her mask, her frame suddenly so small and unimposing. Was she frightened? Of course she was. How could she not be? He had been handling her like an animal. It would be only appropriate for her to question the savage that had charmed her moments before. 

“Apologies, my lady,” he offered, releasing his rough grip on her arm. “I am not one for crowds, and at times they can become too much for me.”

“Sansa,” she corrected. Whatever fear she’d experienced before seemed to fade away. There was hope in the fact that she would still wish he refer to her so intimately. “Please don’t apologize for your aversion to crowds,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “As it seems it's that very aversion that has worked to our favor this evening.”

His eyes widened, a small smile playing across his lips at her candor.

“A stag?” Changing the subject, her hand lifted from his arm to trace the border of his mask.

Stannis looked away, insecurity leading him to pull from her touch. “They are a peaceful creature.”

Her hand hovered in the air for only a moment before she let it drop to his chest and whispered, “And a powerful one.”

Could she feel the rapid beat of his heart, so eager to break through and rest itself in the palm of her hand? Wondering if that would appeal to her, his eyes moved to her lips, so full. Unable to ignore their call, he covered her hand with his, holding her to him as he leaned forward. 

She did not retreat, or squirm away, but instead lifted her chin to better accept him. He’d hardly touched his lips to hers before he heard the rough scratch and scrape of his mask clashing with hers. Fighting against the barrier, he turned his head to catch her from a different angle. Again that crash of mask against mask impeded his effort. 

He was still trying with a severe determination when she uttered a soft chuckle. Stannis tensed, offended that she would laugh at his affections--however clumsy. Refusing to be humiliated, he withdrew, his face tight and his heart sore. 

“I think it best if we take these off,” she giggled, removing her mask, allowing him to see the entirety of her face. It held no malice. Her laughter had not been at him, but instead the ironic situation they found themselves in. It had taken masks to draw them close, and it was those same masks that kept them from each other now. “Here, allow me,” she said, reaching for his. 

Stannis stood still as she pulled the cord tied behind his head. There was a hunger in her eyes that had her nipping her bottom lip as she took in his features. He should have had her right then, descended upon her lips as the animal inside demanded. Instead, like the imbecile he was, he said rather stolidly, “The stag was Davos’ idea.”

She blinked, no doubt shaken by such a change in subject. A small smile replaced her surprise and she admitted, “The wolf had been Daisy’s. She said they are quite loyal to their packs and that some even believe they might mate for life.”

Her use of,  _ mate _ , teased and taunted his growing desire for her and a warmth spread over him as Stannis understood the implication in her words, all of them. Packs were families--their family. Sansa would never embarrass their family with infidelity, her nature too loyal. Was she still trying to soothe him of his jealousy from months before? 

Proud of the lengths his young wife would go to for him, he offered her small smile. “We are fortunate for such wisdom in our servants.”

“Quite,” she agreed before giving a little sigh of discontent. 

Instantly fretting over her change in mood, Stannis asked, “What’s upsetting you?” 

Her sad eyes met his. “I fear when Daisy’s husband returns from the sea, he will take her from our employ and back to their home.” 

“It is not inappropriate for a husband to wish the companionship of his wife,” he answered, hoping she would comprehend the subtext of his words that way he had hers moments before.

The blush that rose in her cheeks promised she had, though she glanced away and carried on as if she hadn’t. “I’ve enjoyed the company...having someone I can trust.”

Finding her hand, he placed it upon his chest again, drawing her gaze back to his. Her eyes were a wonder, a blue that at times was bright and crisp as a winter morning, and at other times softer, soothing. In this moment alone they were the warm blue waters of a lake on a hot summer day consuming and cradling him as he swam. The perfect degree, they warmed him from the frost of a broken heart as well as managed to cool the heat that grew inside, saving him from incineration. He hardly recognized his own voice as he managed, “You can trust me.”

Her chest rose between them, and Stannis watched in rapt fascination as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “ _ Yes _ ,” she breathed.

Though it would have been quite sensical for her agreement to lay with the promise of his words, he got the distinct impression that it was more with the want in his eyes. Such intuition was confirmed when the palm on his chest broke from his hold and traveled up to grip his neck and tilt his head down toward her. 

Stunned by the events unfolding, Stannis gaped at her closed eyes and parted lips. Briefly questioning reality, he decided if it was hallucination, he would wallow in his preferred madness. With no mask to thwart them, Stannis shut his eyes and found her lips instantly. She was warm and welcoming and everything he could ever want. Her hand on his neck held him to her, prepared to object should he pull away.

Not bloody likely. 

He silently thanked the lord above that it was real live flesh and bone in his hands, and not cruel dream instead. At her soft sigh, he splayed his long fingers up to graze over her ribs, not wishing to press her, but entirely unable to stop himself. He had always been a man strong in self-discipline. That was until he first felt Sansa’s kiss, cradled her naked form against his and slid deep inside. Resisting the beast within that desired only to take and have was growing impossibly  _ hard _ . 

The very tips of his fingers rest just below her breasts, itching to lift ever so slightly and trace along the underside as he had the night she went into labor with their sons. Urge turned to need and he felt he might die if she prevented him from such exploration. Though it would be a happy death--having finally felt her so personally again, he now had so many reasons to live. Perhaps she would be kind enough of heart to allow him this trespass. 

Lifting one hand to make that leap, the click of a latch and the creak of a hinge had him standing stock still in place. Sansa’s eyes slowly opened to his alert state. Her lips were the perfect shade of use, dark pink and without border, soft and full as if still caught in their kiss. 

Laughter filled their ears and his head snapped to the side, her own turning to catch up. The sitting room that Davos directed them to had two entrances with which to allow passage. They had entered to one side and a pair of interlopers toward the other. Stannis drew a deep breath, about to demand they bugger off when he felt a hard yank on his lapels.

_ Quick _ , Sansa mouthed. 

Stannis allowed her to pull him back behind a decorative divider that had never fit the motif of the room. He had been told once it had been placed there at his late mother’s insistence, and so it would always remain in the room, decor be damned. Stannis felt it absurd to hide in his own home, he being a grown man with a willing woman quite literally at his fingertips. And yet, there was a glee to her secret game of hide and seek that forced him to favor absurdity. 

The divider was mahogany with light pink and blue flowers painted around the trim, leaving thick ivory-colored fabric to curtain each panel for privacy. What privacy one would need in a sitting room of all places, had always been beyond him. Leave it to his young wife to make use of it, however. Glancing back at her dimples and guilty grin as she pulled the fabric aside to peek, Stannis felt his cheeks lift with a smile of his own. 

It was as if she’d never before seen a couple sneak away from prying eyes to conduct themselves improperly--as if she hadn’t been engaged in the very same such indecency moments before. 

“That’s Cersei,” she whispered, her nose still in the curtain. Stannis stared back at Sansa, surprised that she could recover herself from their intimate moment so quickly. Her cheeks grew as red as her hair, her eyes transfixed on the couple she snooped.

Stannis tore his gaze from her to sneak his own peek at his brother and sister in law. Though, it was not his brother that joined Cersei in such an intimate moment, but some young blond buck. He blinked to clear his vision, hoping to have mistaken the couple. 

It was most certainly Cersei, her golden locks trussed up, strategically placed curls framing her face. While some lords and ladies had their masks fastened to them, Cersei kept her golden angel’s mask on a stick for quick and easy removal. The woman had always known she was considered a great beauty and used that fact to her advantage too frequently to hide her face for too long a period. 

This vanity was her undoing. 

As Robert’s brother, it was Stannis’ duty to call out the gentleman in her company--notify him of her marriage and demand he retreat from her at once. He would then of course, be obligated to report her indiscretion to Robert. 

“I wish to learn who her lover is,” Sansa whispered, reminding him not only of her presence but that she too now knew of this affair. 

Were he alone, he might have chosen to turn his attention elsewhere, blaming her behavior on the spirit of the masquerade. Now, with Sansa beside him, privy to such a secret, he felt compelled to respond. What example would he be setting if he took no action? He lowered his voice, “She’s a married woman. I must tell Robert.”

“No,” Sansa hissed. Her hand reached for his as she plead, “Don’t--please. He’ll punish her severely for it.” 

Lady Cersei was a grown woman who understood the price of such pleasures. He shouldn’t have pitied her whatever abuse she suffered for her crimes, and yet a small part of him did. Women were not as strong as men, and therefore they were meant to be handled with care, not battered for discipline.

His surveyed Sansa, completely unable to comprehend the urge to ever harm such a beautiful creature, and decided he would only ever do what he could to please her. Lady Cersei was not the friend he would have picked for his wife, and yet somehow the woman had become just that. His loyalty to Sansa was now weighed against that to his brother, and it was an easy decision to make. He would maintain her trust above all others. Robert didn’t deserve Cersei, or any other woman for that matter, not with the way he drank and whored and belittled everyone. 

Stannis gave Sansa a slight nod of his head, agreeing to this secret. She rewarded him with an approving smile and a light peck of a kiss on his cheek before turning back to the curtain. Touching his fingers to his cheek, he regretted how quick and polite her gesture was. He wanted to take hold her of and find where they left off, make proper use of their hiding place. 

Unfortunately, she was already so engrossed in the show before them, that he wasn’t sure he could distract her from it. This was quite the predicament! To continue such observation was nothing short of voyeuristic. On the other hand, to attempt exit would reveal their presence in the first place. Pursing his lips in frustration, Stannis stifled a deep sigh and resigned himself to peeping through the curtain alongside Sansa and judging himself poorly for it.

The man held Cersei so intimately as to suggest that this had not been their first encounter, so confident in her approval of his exploration. He was a strong man, carried himself tall and proud, a catlike grin visible under his mask. Cersei allowed him to lead her further back into the room, protesting only mildly, “We’ll be found.” 

“Not in here,” the man assured. “I secured the door.”

Stannis leaned back to look around the divider and verify his words. Indeed, he’d placed a chair under the doorknob so that no one could open it from the other side. If only he had thought of that! Since the man had never bothered to secure the door near them, Stannis could only assume he hadn’t been aware of its presence. The blood drained from his face as he considered the scandal should someone use that door and discover not only Cersei and her beau, but also Sansa and himself playing the part of perverted onlookers. 

The door was only three stride away, though given the circumstances, it felt much farther. He was trying to think of a way to reach it without alerting them when Sansa gripped his arm. She tilted her head back to the couple’s private moment, and whispered her excitement, “ _ His mask! _ ” 

Cersei’s man brought a hand up behind his head to reach for the ties and remove his mask. Sansa would finally get the big reveal she’d been waiting for, and as ridiculous as it was, Stannis took pleasure in her enthusiasm over such mystery. 

“No,” Cersei stopped him. “Leave it.”

“You don’t wish to look upon my face? Should I take offense?” He chuckled behind his mask. It was metal and had an echo to it unlike the cloth ones. Though the room had been kept dark, Stannis could see gold glint in the moonlight shining through the windows. Bends and curves caught in the darkness, suggesting the man had chosen a wild animal as costume, much like both he and Sansa had.

Cersei turned away from him and grinned over her shoulder. “While I adore your face, I have a fantasy that must be fulfilled.” 

“A fantasy?” He repeated, advancing upon her, as if tethered to her, unable to stand too far away. His hands never left her body, touching and feeling what he wasn’t allowed to in the presence of others. “How may I be of service?” 

She turned just enough to run a finger over his mask and utter the single most sinful words Stannis had ever heard a woman speak aloud. “I want you to mount me like a proud lion.” 

The blood rushed to his cock as he watched the man bend her over the back of the couch and ruck up her gown. Her own hands reached down to strip off her small clothes, and Stannis’ breath caught wondering if Cersei’s pale white ass staring back at him was fact or fiction. Imagining Sansa in her place was effortless, standing so close to her. The man was free of his trousers instantly and entering her roughly from behind, his own backside flexing with the force of each thrust. Stannis closed his eyes, allowing himself the fantasy of having his wife similarly.

“You married him, but your  _ mine _ . You’ll always be mine. Say it,” the lover demanded, betraying his need for more than a moment of sexual gratification. 

“Yes!” She moaned into the pillow of the sofa before promising, “I’m yours.”

“Forever.” His hand reached down between her legs, his voice deep as he said, “I’m the only one that knows you--how to touch you.”

Lifting her face off the pillow, she whimpered, “Yes. Oh god, yes. I need you.” 

His thrusts were hard and unrelenting, though his hand running over her exposed flesh was tender and the edge left his voice as he conceded, “And I, you.” 

Stannis swallowed the excess saliva pooling his mouth. The scene playing before his eyes was reprehensible, disgraceful, and beyond saving. The fact that it stirred his cock was wrong, and yet he couldn’t calm the rush of blood to his groin. The raw passion and confession between Cersei and her lover called to the yearning Stannis felt for Sansa. 

It was at that exact moment that Stannis remembered that she was actually standing beside him--gaping through the curtain, no less. She was no fallen woman, but instead a pure lady who would never have cause to recognize such deplorable acts unfolding before her. The immediate need to protect her innocent eyes overcame him and his hands flew to cover them, wincing at the drag of his trousers against his manhood with the motion. 

She startled and stilled at his sudden hold of her. It was his turn to blink in disbelief when he watched her reach for his hands and lift them off her eyes to continue her snooping. Before he could find the proper response to such a development, he heard the door rattle against the chair.

“It’s locked,” some drunken idiot called from the other side.

“Quick!” Cersei hissed at the man in the lion mask. 

Her lover had already reached his limit, groaning as he staggered back, spilling his seed against her backside.

“I think there’s another door,” a different man called. 

The back of Stannis’ neck began to perspire as he considered the door nearest him, his eyes finding Sansa’s wide with panic. Knowing not what else to do, he reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. 

The man recovered quickly, gathering Cersei’s discarded small clothes to use in cleaning away the evidence of their joining. He pulled his pants up and pocketed the garment as smoothly as if routine. Cersei spun around, worry written in her expression as her gown fell back into place. The man finished righting himself and cupped her cheek. “We’re only caught if we act as if we have something to hide. You told me that, remember?”

Her eyes closed and she nodded, drawing a deep breath. Slowly, she opened her eyes on her exhale and lifted her chin. “No one would ever suspect us. We have nothing to fear,” she declared with such certainty that Stannis had no doubt it wasn’t the first time she had ever recited such determination. Her grin had turned broad as she clutched her golden angel mask in her hand and walked toward the door, ready to face the threat outside. Stannis watched her transformation back into the woman his brother had married, hard and proud, and without any visible sign of weakness to exploit--nothing to feel guilty about. Her lover stood beside her, his stance strong and somehow, strangely noble.

“Apologies, gentlemen,” a familiar voice sounded from the hall, halting Cersei and her man midstep. “Lord Baratheon has opened his estate for the festivities, though has specified that this particular room remain untouched for the evening.” 

Davos.

Sansa’s fingers thread through his and Stannis held his breath as he listened to his loyal servant deter the party guests. “If you require a quiet place, there are four other sitting rooms available. In addition, Lord Baratheon has been gracious enough to allow the use of his guest rooms for those requiring overnight accommodations.”

Cersei peered around her, the man in the lion mask scanning the room as well. They could hear Davos, hear that Stannis had wanted this room unoccupied. It wasn’t too difficult to figure from there the chances of them not being as alone as they had originally presumed, or that Stannis might be coming by shortly. 

The sound of drunken grumbling murmured through the wall, agreeing to see another room. Davos spoke as he lead them away, “My lord appreciates your understanding.”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut, relief washing over her. Stannis quietly released the breath he was holding. Cersei’s lover removed the chair he had wedged beneath the knob and took her hand as he opened the door to exit. Cersei gave one last suspicious glance around her before she stepped out into the light, forcing a light laugh to the guests lining the halls to better act as if she hadn’t just suffered such a significant lapse in her moral judgement.

“That was close.” Sansa smiled, grateful at not being found out. 

Stannis chuckled a little uncomfortably and let go of her hand to wipe the back of his neck. “Indeed, it was.” 

Her blush had spread from her cheeks to her chest, rising and falling against the atmosphere, thick with secrets and arousal. His smile dropped then, remembering the savagery his wife had just witnessed, imagining her forever changed by it. On behalf of all men, he felt he should apologize. This was not how she was to learn of such things driven by desire and desperation, but instead in time, in the comfort of his bed, with trust and tenderness to guide her heart further toward him and their mutual needs. “Sansa, what you witnessed-”

“I didn’t know such things were possible,” she admitted, looking less scandalized and more intrigued. 

He considered her for a moment, not wanting her to fear similar treatment. She was his wife, not a whore, and he was determined to treat her with the utmost respect and dignity. “Yes, well what’s possible and what’s preferred are not always the same.” 

“Oh.” She averted her gaze. “Then such activity is not your preference?”

Of course it was. Given the proper circumstances and experience, he would prefer any activity that allowed for mutual pleasure. Lady Cersei, certainly appeared as though she appreciated the form of intimacy offered--and requested, even! “Well-” he began to attempt an explanation that was both honest and respectful of Sansa’s inexperience when he was interrupted by Davos at the door, a look of surprise on his face. 

“You’re still here, my lord.” 

“Yes,” Stannis growled, irritated. Was there a time limit to one’s use of a room in his own home?

“I apologize, I wasn’t certain. I saw Lady Cersei and Lord-”

“It is late,” Sansa decided quickly, moving past them both. “It is time I retire to my chamber for the evening.” She paused to meet his eye, her expression unreadable. “Sleep well, Stannis.”

The door opened and she was lost to the crowd and lights. Stannis was left helpless to watch her slip through his fingertips once more. His heart sank as he stared ahead, feeling devoid of the warmth she radiated. 

“I imagine you must be quite tired yourself, my lord,” Davos said. 

“What?” Stannis turned, barely comprehending the words he’d heard. 

Davos sighed and then leaned forward, “If I might be so bold-”

“You usually are,” Stannis groaned, still annoyed by the interruption. Davos would suggest that he retire as well, as the man had a tendency to play mother hen more often than not. 

“Lady Sansa retired to her chamber,” he said, his words taking the course Stannis had expected. “Though, not before offering a look only shared between man and wife.”

Stannis snapped to attention. He hadn’t been expecting his man to say that.

“Perhaps, it would be most advantageous of you to retire along  _ with _ her at this time,” Davos said, eyeing him to ensure his meaning was understood.

Stannis glanced between him and door, his heart pounding at the prospect. Likewise, his stomach rumbled in fear of mistake. What if Davos was incorrect in the way in which he read Sansa’s face? Worse, what if he was correct and Stannis hadn’t dared trust his impression?

He had already lost so much time with her due to fear, that he refused to miss a moment more. One foot stepped in front of the other before he was at the door, calling back simply--determinedly, “Of course.” 

 

 

 


	14. Attentions Due

Sansa yanked the pins out of her hair and without an ounce of grace, tossed them on her vanity. Determined to divest herself of her fancy dress quickly and seek the sanctity of her bed, she left her clothing on the floor of her chamber. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so untidy, though in her frazzled state, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She sought her nightgown and covered herself, still affected by the impurity of the evening. Sansa had finally attained her husband’s attention, only to then act a child for it. What would Margaery say? Or Cersei? 

Margaery was still downstairs at the party, taking pleasure in bawdy flirtations that could brand her a harlot without the protection of a mask, and Cersei… Cersei was in no position to throw stones. 

It may have been the libations Sansa enjoyed earlier that had her body buzzing with impish energy, or perhaps the feel of her husband’s lips on her. When Cersei arrived with her lover, Sansa’s first instinct was to scurry and hide--and stifle her giggles. She chided herself at the memory. How could Stannis ever see her as a woman if she kept behaving as if she were still a young girl?

Sansa had known of her friend’s infidelity, and despite her own strong moral fiber, had not blamed her for her double life--not after coming to know Robert. It was different, however, to witness Cersei’s affection for her lover first hand. To see such possibilities Sansa hadn’t even conceived of prior. The man Cersei had been with had appeared quite learned in her body and even her heart, speaking things Sansa had never dreamed of uttering aloud to another person. How comfortable they were writhing in such debauchery. 

Wrapping her shawl around her, she wondered at the identity of this man who’d never removed his mask. He was tall and blond and though he’d remained clothed from the waist up, his muscular thighs told her he was no slouch. His golden mask and the fine fabric of his coat promised he wasn’t some lowly laborer or servant Cersei dragged along on her travels, but instead a gentleman. If he were a nobleman, he would have frequented the same circles as she. How many times had Sansa allowed this lion to take her hand and politely kiss the back of it in greeting? She hadn’t seen anyone with a lion mask at the start of the night, though it was logical that Cersei wouldn’t have announced her lover’s presence. So practiced they were in their affair, the man had probably joined after the party had begun in order to more easily slip away and defile Cersei in their sitting room.

Filling her head with this mystery helped to avoid the thoughts that truly troubled her. Thoughts of Stannis, how close he held her, how much she adored the feel of his strong chest under her palm, rising and falling. Each inhalation reminded her that he was real, not an illusion meant to torment. It became easy to believe that he might desire her, standing so close and allowing such liberties. The look in his eyes as he watched Cersei and her lover and the fact that he never answered Sansa’s question regarding such positioning, only alluded to his sexuality. 

Sansa imagined herself bent over, backside bare to him. It would be thrilling to have him so besotted with her that he forgot all decorum and had his way with her, speaking as the man in the lion mask had to Cersei. Stannis was an officer who commanded many men--what would it be like for him to take hold of her and issue orders? Her face heated at the thought. 

A knock sounded at her door and she sighed at the way Daisy still bothered to request entrance, especially after spending so much time in her chamber helping to nurse the babes, and seeing that Lord Baratheon had not frequented it... 

When Sansa opened the door, it was not Daisy that she found, but instead the very man she’d been fantasizing about. Stannis loomed in the doorway, so distracted by his thoughts, that she wondered if he recognized her standing before him. “Stannis?” 

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, and glanced around, ensuring she was alone. “I’ve come to bid you goodnight.”

Strange. She had done that before she left his company. Her more idealistic self had hoped he might have come to extend her an invitation to  _ his _ bed, to teach her more things she hadn’t before had knowledge of. Though, knowing her husband and the state of their marriage, Sansa knew not to bother with hope. It would be a notable mark of maturity for her to recognize when the moment had ended, and accept that the night had come to a close. 

“And to see for myself how you’re faring,” he added, stepping foot into her chamber. Sansa took a step back, allowing him inside, though doubting he would have accepted a refusal should she decide to give it. “After observing such…”

“I’m fine,” she lied, ignoring the ache that grew at such memory. His stolen glances her way as they stood crouched behind that hideous divider were nothing short of torrid. If eyes alone could strip a person bare, she was certain his had been making such work for themselves. Stannis was much more worldly than she, his knowledge not limited to one steamy night of lost virginity. That suddenly made her feel so insignificant, as if she were merely another woman in the long line of women who lifted their skirts for him. Margaery had said it was normal for a husband to take a mistress when not sharing his wife’s bed. What separated Sansa from any other woman he’d ever encountered? The fact that he would concern himself so with her delicate sensibilities suggested he viewed her as the essence of purity, and no longer as someone he might share sin with. Had she already been forgotten? His eyes had indicated otherwise, but his words and careful treatment of her said perhaps. 

Refusing to be so dismissed, she lifted her chin and attempted to sound much more casual than her beating heart would allow. “I was aware that Cersei had taken a lover; that is not a surprise to me. Only their identity.”

“And that does not bother you?” His brows furrowed, leaning closer to her. “That your  _ friend  _ would seek companionship outside of wedlock?” 

Should it have? It wouldn't have bothered anyone well-versed in the pitfalls of society, though it might a timid young bride still reeling from her first encounter with man. Was that what he wanted? His virginal bride back, so that he might more easily set her aside and calm whatever lust for her he may have felt? 

While Sansa loathed to disappoint, she had grown too much in the time since she accepted his proposal, and would no longer allow herself to be so easily overlooked. Knowing now just what she needed to do, Sansa gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, allowing her shawl to drop from one shoulder. “People have affairs, make arrangements. It’s the way of things.”

“ _ People _ ?” 

She nodded, secretly pleased that he’d noticed her decision not to specify the male sex, and the way his eyes landed on her shoulder. The fact that he’d been so rattled by her words allowed her to feel much bolder than she’d ever felt before. “People have needs, Stannis. Who am I to cast blame on them for that?” 

His head cocked and he leaned in even closer, crowding her space, forcing her to retreat a step back further into the room. “Is that so?” He asked, scrutinizing her every feature. “ _ People _ ?” He repeated.

Refusing to cower to his obvious strength, she glared at him. “It is not only men that suffer desires that require sating.”

His eyes went dark as he herded her further into the room, his forward steps growing more insistent. “And what of you?”

Sansa gulped, retreating further until she knew they’d found the opposite side of the room. 

“Do you have such desires?” He asked, his voice husky, almost unrecognizable. 

Embarrassment colored her cheeks and forced her to avert her gaze. Apparently not accepting that as sufficient answer, he dared to ask, “Have you been sated?”

She gasped. His line of questioning was wicked, but quite honest, and as her husband he deserved an answer, even if it took all her mettle to give. She spoke barely above a whisper. A part of her prayed he wouldn’t hear, while another part was desperate for him to. “ _ No _ .”

And there it was. The raw truth, hanging in the air between them, vulnerable to whatever he may or may not do with it. 

Again, she remembered that he had never answered her question from the sitting room, whether he had such preferences as Cersei and her lover--whether he indulged in them. Deciding she wasn’t one to roll over and accept defeat so easily, she squared her shoulders before asking, “And you?” 

His eyes flashed to hers, a small predatory smile playing across his lips. “Are you inquiring as to whether or not I have arrangements outside of our marriage?”

The degree of self-assurance he exuded to ask such a brazen question had her seeing for herself the magic of a masquerade. She’d grown used to being the more confident one, and he the more disquieted party. To reverse such roles now, alone in her bedroom, with nothing but the thin fabric of her nightgown keeping her from view, was nothing short of titillating.

His eyes filled with lust and ardor and she wondered if it wasn’t ego behind such boldness but instead genuine interest. Perhaps he wished her to take an interest in him and his asking as much was his way of discerning that. It was then that Sansa decided whatever humility it cost her, she would reap greater benefit from fostering his courage. Batting her long lashes at him, she admitted, “I know it shouldn’t bother me, but-”

His lips descended upon hers, cutting off her words. He tasted of a spice entirely his own, and she chased it around his mouth never finding her fill. Stannis kept her from sinking to the floor under the weight of such affection, holding her arms tight in his grip. How he knew her legs would turn boneless, she wasn’t sure.

Relishing such intimacy, Sansa took a deep breath when he moved from her lips to her jaw. When his teeth grazed her flesh, she felt a rush of heat between her legs and arched forward, trying to close the gap between them. He smiled at her efforts and searched for her lips again. It was that self-satisfied smirk that had her turning her head away from him, remembering how little she appreciated his non-answer.

He paused, confusion in his expression. She’d been so open to his advances until then, suddenly denying him her kiss. It somehow donned on him and Stannis ran his lips over her ear as he divulged, “I have not had a woman since my wedding night.”

He released her wrists to gauge her reaction to such truth. Unable to stop herself from calculating the months since their wedding night, butterflies took flight in her her belly and her breasts grew heavy. Taking advantage of her new freedom, she laid her palm on his chest as she had before and asked, “Do you not suffer such urges?”

His lips curled in confession, “I suffer without you.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. Her eyes locked with his, glittering with misconduct. She thought those eyes could strip her bare, and now alone in her room with no one to intrude, she was certain his hands would. There was a tremor in her voice that she couldn’t hide as she permitted, “Then suffer no more. I am yours.” 

His eyes closed and she felt him shudder under her palm. He held the appearance of a gentleman standing before her in his fine clothes and grooming, though beneath the surface roiled something savage. She leaned back to offer him the space to shed his shell so she might meet the man under all the dress and etiquette. Her shoulders hit the hard wall behind her and she winced at the cold of it, feeling the space between them close again.

His hands flew to her hips, fisting the gauzy fabric that covered them. Sansa moved a hand to his shoulder, urging him to look at her. When his eyes opened, gone were the sapphires she’d been reminded of as she fingered the jewels he gifted her, replaced by inky black orbs that consumed. He was a hunter--had demonstrated his proficiency in such a skill on so many an occasion, and she was fast feeling as if she’d become his prey. His voice was strangled as he gave her one final chance to flee his frenzy, “Do not say things you do not mean.”

Her breath caught at that. Whatever transformation he’d been undergoing, she too had been sharing in the experience, her own self becoming somewhat  _ feral _ . The pulse between her legs called to him, begged him to feel it, whatever the price or consequence. Desperate to convince him that she had, in fact, meant it--that she could handle whatever he needed, she groaned, “I need you.”

And then it all broke around them.

His restraint. 

Her reason. 

Fingers dug deep into her hips, bruising the supple flesh that curved beneath the fabric he balled in his fists, lifting higher and higher. The cool air hit her calves and then her knees and Sansa nearly lost her balance over the sweet sinful sensation of such promise. She was fortunate to have a sturdy wall behind her and a strong, solid man in front to keep her upright. 

A man who had refused to seek his comfort elsewhere in all this time. 

Through all the doubt and distance, he’d not turned to another woman for his gratification, remaining as loyal to her as she had to him. She tilted her hips, offering herself to him, craving his proprietary touch. Whether it was that he was quick to sate her, or that he already had a mind for such action, he immediately cupped her womanhood.

She wore no small clothes beneath her nightgown, tonight needing the reprieve from such confinement. It was that lack of barrier that had his nostrils flaring upon discovery of her sex, bare and sodding. She hadn’t the opportunity to feel shame in it, too taken by his caress. His rough hands were calloused from years at sea, and felt so spectacularly different from her own, brushing over her. 

Sucking air in through her teeth, Sansa shivered as he offered what she wasn’t capable of giving herself--not without ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers to cleanse her soul before her bed. Even then, laying in the shame of her desperation, her pleasure was never as great as it was now at his fingertips. Spreading her slick arousal, he casually grazed the sensitive flesh her folds hid from the world.

His breathing grew ragged, his other hand on her hip clamping down and keeping her still as he toyed with her. Her reflexes fought his hold, hips rolling defiantly against him. They urged him on, begging him to venture a little further--to remind her of her sex, and him of the claim he’d staked so long ago. Stannis’ lips turned voracious when they found the crook of her neck, on kissing and sucking as he increased the intensity of the massage beneath her gown. 

Helpless at his hand, she whimpered, “ _ Stannis _ .” 

If he heard her plea, he ignored it, too lost in the moment.

Feverishly arching into him, sweat drenched her back and her pleasure built between her legs. She wanted more. Not just more of his skilled touch, but of the fervid look in his eyes, and his unique scent. Sansa had turned greedy at his fingertips and wouldn’t settle for any less than everything, tearing at his jacket and shirt, struggling to remove them. To see that man that ruined her for all others. 

Stannis let her go just long enough to rip off his cravat and shrug out of his coat, ripping his shirt off over his head to assist her. Sansa was only afforded the briefest of opportunities to take inventory of his proud chest and the light smattering of dark hair that gathered together and lead down toward the natural impression of his hips hiding under the waist of his trousers, before he reached for her again. His eyes searched hers for an answer, an allowance. Whatever it was he wanted, he could have it. Too afraid to utter a word and break the spell they were under, she prayed her eyes would sing her willingness. 

His warm hands moved from her hips, back over the curves of her bottom and down her thighs bunching up her gown again. His words gave a directive that brooked no room for debate. “Hold your gown.”

Sansa’s hands shook as she accepted the fabric from him, clutching it to herself. The breeze was cool against her wet curls, though she still felt as though she might burn up entirely under his lustful gaze. His eyes never left hers as he began unbuttoning his trousers, silently daring her to stop him.

She wouldn’t. 

She had wanted this--wanted him, for too long. No other man could compare, every fine detail and trait of his, so profoundly superior. The very prospect of holding him deep inside herself, had her legs trembling in anticipation. 

Taking her silent compliance for approval, he bent low enough to reach for her thighs, lifting and parting them. She let out a small squeal, surprised to lose the solid feeling of floor beneath her feet. There was a deep rumble in the back of his throat that she took for satisfaction, as it complimented the glimmer in his eye and the slight quirk of his lips. She may have swatted at him for such mischief if he hadn't left his trousers open between them. Her breasts, affected by motherhood had grown and obscured her view so that she could only spy a thatch of dark hair and the curve of a manhood still somewhat contained. 

That was until he leaned her back into the wall so that he might free one hand to find himself beneath her. He was velvety smooth and insistent, running over her seam to detect her opening. Once found, his eyes fluttered shut on an exhale as he pressed forward. 

Sansa stole his breath, inhaling at the invasion of his gradual glide. Though she’d birthed his children, she had fully recovered, and he was much larger than she remembered from their one night together. She stretched to accommodate his shape, a hot hard bliss that seemed without end. 

His hands squeezed her legs, keeping them open for him as he pressed forward, insisting on more--deeper, higher. When he’d traveled as far as their bodies would allow, his expression turned pained. “ _ I can’t _ ,” he gasped. 

What did he mean? Did he mean to stop? Now? Panic squeezed her chest, and tears pricked the back of her eyes. “ _ Can't? _ ” She breathed back, flabbergasted.  

He closed his eyes and shook his head as he forced a reply through his teeth, “I can't stop. I’m not capable of...slow. I can't be  _ gentle… _ ”

His confession stirred low in her belly, and had her shifting her hips up off the wall, needing his friction. She wanted to keep this moment alive inside her long after it ended. Sansa would think of it while her maid dressed her in the morning, when she took a stroll through the garden, and even when she sat to nurse their babies, her mind wandering. How delightfully obscene it would be to still feel her husband between her legs as they socialized with friends over tea, each giving the other a knowing look.

“ _ Then don't _ ,” she keened, flexing her intimate muscles. 

His pupils blew wide open and he emitted a growl that promised the gentle lord had left and only a potent male with a mind to ravage remained. He pulled back only slightly before thrusting up to impale her so severely. It stole all the air from her lungs and the very beat from her heart, and left all the fine hair on her body standing on end. Before she could comprehend the mixture of pleasure and pain, he bucked into her again. And then again. Pinning her hard against the wall, he growled into her shoulder as if he were a rabid animal.

Her fingers drove into the back of his skull, holding him to her as he battered her insides with a pleasure unlike that of her wedding night. Citrus and sandlewood, sweat and arousal clung heavy in the air, advertising their illicit act. Sansa nuzzled the side of his face, letting his stubble scratch and scrape her soft cheek as she covered herself in his scent. She was his, and she would have the world know it. 

Everything about him was hard and unyielding. His arms were thick cords of muscle reaching to his chest and caging around her, forcing her to take him. He was so hot between her legs that he seared her insides, branding her his until she melted around him in submission. “ _ Stannis _ ,” she cried out again, forgetting all other words. There was no escaping his rough sensual assault, his appetite so severe and while she had hungered for him, he had clearly starved without her. 

Sansa would gladly allow him to devour her whole. 

Looking for leverage, some way to fight against the gravity that forced her down on him, she reached up behind her, and grabbed the sconce mounted on the wall. In retaliation, Stannis tore her nightgown open, letting it pool around her waist and lay over where they met. His eyes feasted upon her bare breasts between them, swaying with each of his greedy thrusts. Again, he rumbled something unintelligible deep in his chest before he bent his neck to lav the space between her hardened peaks. 

His lips wrapped around one nipple as he rut into her. Sansa kicked her legs, trying to find the wall behind her with the balls of her feet, her knuckles turning white around the candlestick as she arched further into his mouth. 

Tears gather in her eyes as his tongue cradled and flicked. Her sobs hadn’t been from sadness or pain but instead the sheer beauty of losing oneself so completely to another. To the purity of becoming nothing but a real, raw need. To being tended to, and tending to someone else. To placing oneself at the will of another and being so explicitly rewarded for it. 

Stannis released her breast and straightened, grunting determinedly as his thrusts grew much more concentrated. It was then that the sconce finally broke under the strain of Sansa’s death grip. It tore a chunk of horsehair plaster from the wall and destroyed the ceramic pitcher and basin that sat on the nightstand it landed on. 

Sansa tensed at the distraction, her head turning to assess the damage done. 

“ _ Leave it, _ ” he growled and pressed his forehead into her shoulder as he picked up his pace. 

With nothing to grip, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and clung tightly to him. It was as if should she let go, she would sink down to the floor. Afraid of drowning under such overwhelming passion, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist. The change in position had her breath catch. Her heart thrummed frantically in her chest and all her nerves reached their endings until she shattered and crashed into him, gasping over his shoulder.

Sansa lay limp against him, her eyelids heavy and threatening to close as she felt him quake in her arms. Stannis suddenly roared into her ear, bucking and pulsing inside her as if he might actually die if he were separated from her then.

Seconds passed, both of them panting against each other. Slowly, he let her legs slide down his until her feet touched the ground. She wobbled, every muscle in her body exhausted from such lovely abuse. He was kind enough to steady her before he shuffled back, his trousers caught on his thighs, wonderfully toned from riding. 

Her smile faltered when he averted his gaze and shook his head. “ _ Apologies _ .” The word was hushed and contrite. 

It held regret. 

Regret at what they had done. 

Sansa’s gown had dropped to the floor and she suddenly felt so naked. No, it was not meant to be like this. Sansa had fantasized about this many times, and each time it ended so differently.

Each time, she imagined them deeply in love. Though, this had not been an act of love, had it? So forced were the circumstances of their joining, and so desperate was their act, that this was more the result of impaired inhibition than anything else. She was a fool to think otherwise, despite how well matched they were in every way. 

Her arms crossed over her breasts, fighting to control her disappointment and maintain some degree of dignity. Though she was certain she knew the answer, she lifted her chin and pursed her lips as she asked, “What for?”

Stannis glanced down at her chest and gave a curious look. His hands went to his trousers, and instead of pulling them up, he was pushing them further down until they fell on the floor and he stepped out of them. “For the way in which I took you, of course.”

Her stomach churned. It was just as she thought--he hadn’t wanted her. Did he despise himself for giving in to her? Her brow furrowed when he added, “You deserve better than that.” 

He reached for her and Sansa let him pull her arms free, uncovering her breasts again. His gaze was warm and appreciative, and held no notes of disgust. Letting his hand find hers, she allowed him to tug her gently away from the wall and walk them carefully around the debris on the floor. They were both completely bare and nearing a bed, leading her to believe perhaps what she found to be pleasurable, may not have been so for him. She wet her lips anxiously and swallowed before asking, “Were you not  _ pleased _ ?” 

“Quite,” he assured her, nudging her forward. His smile was soft and sweet and so vastly unlike the carnal simper from before. 

Sansa allowed him to guide her to lay down, and as she sank into the bed, she began to ask, “Then-”

“Shh.” He climbed onto the mattress with her, though he did not lay beside or on top of her. Instead, Stannis remained on his knees by her feet. “Part your legs.” 

A jolt of excitement shot through her. Mere seconds before, she had thought herself too sated to ever feel such a sensation again, and yet at his blunt instruction, she was tingling all over. Her voice wavered with the anxiety of the unknown as she asked, “What are you doing?” 

Stannis leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then her lips, moving to her throat and the valley between her breasts before her navel. Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she watched him reach for a bit of the bedspread and wipe his seed from her, before continuing his trail of kisses. 

Another shiver ran through her as his face hovered over the junction between her legs, tickling her overstimulated flesh, his breath so hot and humid. Settling on his elbows, he ran his tongue over the length of her and smiled against her sex, pecking it with a playful kiss when her hips bucked in surprise. He spoke into her thigh, nipping it as he finally explained, “I’m giving you the time and attention you are due.”

Unsure how to respond, Sansa hesitated. He turned his head, tickling her other leg with his hair as he did and burrowed his tongue between her folds. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head and the sound of her own voice surprised her as she cried out into night. 

If this was not love, Sansa suspected it very well might have been the start.  

  
  



	15. A Proper Rousing

The sun was bright on his eyelids, turning the black backdrop he’d been sleeping in to a warm red that called him to consciousness. The air smelled of lavender and feminine musk, reminding him that it hadn’t been his own bed he’d fallen asleep in the night before. He smiled to himself, appreciating how little sleep he had gotten what with her soft moans, supple flesh, and sharp fingernails. Sansa was a goddess and he would gladly convert from Christ to spend every waking moment worshipping at the temple of her body if she would allow it. 

Stannis rolled onto his side, still grinning at the mere thought of such ardent devotion. Shivering when the sheets brushed over his erection, he quickly sought her warmth as remedy. Whether she realized it or not, the mere fact that she so willingly lay naked beside him had his heart speeding up. This was especially so considering that not a day before layers of plaster and panelling separated them with such finality. Fantasy had turned to reality, and he was left with no other alternative or inclination but to revel in it.

She sighed as his arms wrapped around her, and he was certain he felt her cheeks pull into a grin when he nuzzled his nose in the crook of her neck. It was relieving to know she held no regrets from the night before--at least not while she slumbered. He prayed she would remain of a like mind when she woke. 

As if hearing his contemplation aloud, her hips wriggled against him to distract. The pleasure of it drove all other thoughts from his brain along with the blood flowing south. He clutched her closer to him as he ground his erection against her backside, a slight groan escaping his lips. She smiled as goosebumps spread over her cheek and down her neck.

Deciding by now that she must be awake, he took comfort in the fact that she had not yet pushed him away, or grown bashful. Stannis purred in her ear, “Cold, my dear?” His hand slid up to cup her breast, letting it fill his palm. 

The pillow helped mute her soft chuckle before she replied, “The room can be quite frigid in the morning.” She nestled her bottom further into his hips, encouraging his erection as she looked over her shoulder with a sparkle in her eye. “Though, you’ll find that I am not.” 

“How fortunate for me.” Stannis grinned, brushing his thumb playfully over her nipple. 

“Oh?” She asked, pretending to be aloof. 

“Mm.” He released her breast. 

She ignored the way his hand slid over her belly and between her legs, her voice raising innocently as she teased, “Are  _ you  _ cold?”

“Freezing,” he lied, tracing the length of her seam.

She giggled as he added, “Hypothermia could very well be setting in as we speak.”

“Oh no!” She gasped through her grin. “Shall I ring for a doctor?”

“No,” he shook his head, his fingers never ceasing their exploration. “I am certain I’ll pull through--with the assistance of my good lady wife, of course.”

Sansa quivered when he skimmed over her flesh just so. “How might I-” Her words cut off on an involuntary moan as he discovered her opening. “Be of assistance?”

Stannis closed his eyes and inhaled, reining in his need, ignoring what sounded like a soft cry off in the distance. Sansa was warm and slick and so very inviting. It wasn’t until she let out a small frustrated sigh at his lingering, that he broke from the trance her womanhood held over him. Stannis wet his lips and whispered in her ear, “Perhaps, you might share your warmth with me?”

He didn’t allow her the opportunity for a witty reply, dipping his fingers deep inside her heat until she rolled her hips on his hand and groaned into her pillow. Though it was muffled by the linen, it somehow sounded as if a sob. Stannis propped himself up on one elbow to better watch her body respond to his touch, to see if he’d affected her so grately she’d begun to weep as she had the night before. He had only just started... 

“ _ Stannis _ ,” she gasped, her hand fisting the sheets beside her. There were no tears in her eyes to match the cry he was certain he was hearing. Where was it coming from?

KNOCK-KNOCK

“My lady!” Daisy’s voice sounded on the other side of the door, accompanied by what Stannis now recognized as a baby’s cry. “It is time for a feeding.”

Sansa stilled. Her eyes snapped open, and her head shot up off the pillow to stare at the door between her chamber and the nursery. Stannis scowled at the interruption, forcing himself to understand the importance of it. An annoying servant could be ignored, his child’s hunger could not. He had barely extracted his hand from between her legs, before Sansa was up and donning her robe. She was at the door before Stannis could sit up and even attempt to swing his legs over the side of the bed. How quickly her maternal instincts took hold of her. 

A loud wail filled the room as she opened the door. Daisy shook her head as she attempted to quiet the child. “I’m sorry, my lady. He wouldn’t take to me this morning. I think he might want-”

The rest of her words fell away when she happened to turn her head and notice Stannis. She gaped at him, as if this were the last place she’d ever imagined she might encounter him. To be fair, it probably was. He stifled a smirk knowing he must have been quite a sight in Sansa’s bed, the sheets pooling around his waist, his bare chest implying his complete nudity. 

“Thank you, Daisy,” Sansa raised her voice to be heard over the crying and reached for the baby. When Daisy hadn’t left, or taken her eyes off of Stannis, or even bothered to close her mouth, Sansa added, “That will be all.”

Finally coming back to her senses, Daisy nodded. “Very well. Shall I fetch Brynden as well?” 

“Did he feed?” Sansa asked what Stannis was wondering. 

Daisy nodded. “Yes. It’s only that I know they nurse better when they can hear each other in the same room.”

“Is that so?” Stannis asked, surprised to learn that. 

“Yes,” Sansa smiled over her shoulder before turning back to Daisy and nodding her head in agreement. Daisy turned quickly and disappeared. 

Stannis sat further up in the bed, propping pillows up on the headboard to lean against. He knew he should excuse himself to his chambers--their intimate moment well over, though he found himself not wishing to leave yet. 

Sansa turned to walk back to bed, pulling her robe to the side to bare her breast to Steffon. His little head moved around, hungrily rooting for her nipple before he latched and his screams turned to grunts and heavy breathing. “There, there,” Sansa cooed. “You’re not starving. Slow down and breathe.” 

Daisy cleared her throat as she crossed the threshold to their room with little Brynden in her arms. Stannis watched her walk toward the rocking chair and then pause to glance his way. How awkward she must have felt to have him there in such an indecent state while they carried on their morning routine. “My lord?” She asked, walking toward him. 

He hesitated, unsure of her intentions at first, before he realized she meant to pass him the child. Sansa hardly seemed to notice this interchange, so focused on nourishing Steffon. Daisy scurried across the room. “Ring if you require any assistance,” she called out, averting her gaze to better conceal her dimples. The woman was hardly a virgin, being married herself, and yet she was as embarrassed as if she were a young girl still sheltered in her parents’ home. 

The door closed and Stannis looked down at his son in his arms. The boy was quiet, his eyes glazed as he looked up at him. His lethargy was so unlike the boisterous presentation he usually made of himself that Stannis felt the need to point it out. “He’s quite docile this morning…”

“Daisy said he had eaten.” Sansa looked up from Steffon, a proud smile on her face. “Infants fall asleep on full bellies, darling.” 

_ Darling _ .

His heart swelled at her term of endearment. The masquerade had lowered her inhibitions and allowed him into her bed, though he hadn’t imagined he had yet earned a place in her heart. Though, Sansa wouldn’t have bothered with an endearment if her affection for him had only grown as far as one passionate night. “Of course,” he agreed, because he had known that already from Shireen and he was at a loss for all other words, too filled with amore. 

He glanced around the chamber, escaping the weight of such emotion. For the first time since he had returned, he considered it. Sansa had made it her home in his absence and then later, in his avoidance, and it now held her impression. Would she be willing to leave her sanctuary behind to join him in his on a more permanent basis?

It was hardly typical, and yet, he cared as little about that as he had on his wedding night--before morning came to sow it’s seeds of doubt. Thankfully, this morning was nothing like that one had been. It was fitting that the perfect replacement for such terrible memories had occurred a year later to the day. Warm in Sansa’s bed, he dared to believe that the rest of the mornings they shared would only follow suit to this one. 

His eyes trailed over to the door to the nursery and realized that his room held no such space attached so conveniently. Perhaps she would prefer to remain in her chamber until the boys were weaned. Stannis eyed Steffon succling Sansa’s breast and tamed his lust-filled urges through sheer force of will, reminding himself that he was holding Brynden. He shifted the child in his grasp, his arm beginning to perspire under the heat the little bundle radiated, and wondered at how long was absolutely necessary for an infant to nurse. Would she take issue with Stannis moving himself into her chamber, instead? The room was smaller than his, though not uncomfortably so, and he would still allow her to make all the determinations in regards to decor...

“Would you care to share your thoughts with me?” Sansa asked, somewhat amused at startling him. “You look quite lost in deliberation of some sort.”

“I-”

A light tap against the door cut off Stannis’ attempt at an explanation. Davos’ voice sounded muffled through the wood, “Pardon, my lady.”

Sansa pulled Steffon from her breast and closed her robe. “Yes, enter,” she called out, rather impatiently as she rubbed Steffon’s back and patted it. 

Davos had already begun speaking as he opened the door, though stopped mid-sentence when he recognized Stannis in bed beside her, much as Daisy had. Like sister, like brother. Unlike Daisy, he recovered himself quickly, “Ah. My lord.” He flashed them both a smile that was extremely perceptive. “I thought I might find you here.”

Sansa raised and brow in question and Stannis cleared his throat, a slight cough to his words. “You required something?”

“Breakfast,” Davos explained, attempting to hide his smirk. “And it is your guests that require it…though, I imagine you might be hungry as well by now.”

“We’re fine,” Stannis replied quickly, wishing to return to his morning alone with his wife. When Davos didn’t immediately vacate, Stannis sighed. This hardly required his attention. “If people are hungry, feed them.”

Sansa bit her cheek to contain her laughter. 

Davos mirrored her amusement. 

“What?” He asked, annoyed that he was missing something. 

Davos bowed his head slightly as he explained, “It is customary for the host to be present for all offered meals in mixed company.”

Of course. Stannis knew that. He only meant that they might start without him. Flustered by the misunderstanding, he pursed his lips. “We’ll be down shortly.” 

“Very good.” Davos turned his head, for the first time noticing the debris on the floor. In the light of day, it appeared so much greater than it had by candlelight. The ceramic pitcher and basin that Sansa had previously set on her nightstand had shattered upon impact, the larger pieces and fine shards scattered in a large radius beside the bed. On the floor also was the metal wall sconce and two broken candles, landing there after smashing into the pitcher and bouncing off the small table. It was a wonder that the flames had burned out rather than caught the room on fire. Torn plaster dusted over the wreckage, accenting the scene. Sansa’s overwhelming desire left a mark that would forever remind them of that night. 

Davos was wondering what had happened, no doubt, though fortunately for them both, he did not inquire. “I will call upon someone to make the proper repairs.”

Sansa blushed, modesty preventing her from confessing her crime of passion. Stannis responded for them both, giving only a simple nod. He refused to feel guilty for the greatest moment of pleasure he’d ever felt in his life--including the night he’d deflowered her. That particular night, he’d given her the utmost care, too concerned for the pain she would endure to allow himself too much pleasure. Things were different now, however. The night before had surely been a testament to that fact. For the first time ever, he’d been able to act entirely selfish and take by force everything she so willingly yeilded.

Davos paused his leaving to look at the child in Stannis’ arms. “Shall I call upon Daisy to collect the children?” 

Steffon’s eyes drooped closed against Sansa’s shoulder, promising he too was ready for rest. “Yes,” Sansa answered. “Thank you.” 

Davos was gone in an instant, finally leaving Stannis and his wife alone again. Unfortunately, people were awaiting their presence and though he would have enjoyed living his life from their marriage bed, they hadn’t exactly decided which one that would be, and it was simply wasn’t practical. Besides, the paganistic love he’d been considering would require that they shoo every last one of their guests away. Decorum would dictate that they do so politely and appropriately. It would take time, much more so than he desired, but it was necessary. Once everyone had left, he could scoop her up and have his way no matter what hour of the day. Davos and Daisy could snicker to themselves over tea and cakes while Sansa ripped something else from the wall. 

His cock swelled again at the thought, and he clenched his free hand into a white knuckled fist meant to control himself. It was doing a poor job of it. He stifled a huff of frustration as he rose from the bed. When Sansa glanced up at him, obviously noticing the tension in his body, he said simply, “My clothes are in my room.” 

If she wondered if there was more to his stance, she did not dig deeper into his explanation. Instead, she tapped the mattress. “You may lay him to rest here while I await Daisy.” 

Stannis didn’t disagree, only did as she instructed, noting the cool air that hit him in the absence of his son’s warmth. “I’ll see you…” He trailed off, staring back into her bright blue eyes. It was oddly difficult to leave her. “Downstairs.”

“Yes,” she agreed, holding his gaze. “I’ll not delay.”

He reached for his pants and began sliding them on, hating every moment of it.

“Stannis?” 

He looked up from his trousers. “Yes?”

Her smile was warm and her voice soft as she said, “Happy anniversary--last night.”

She had remembered! 

Of course she had. A wedding date was not something a woman often forgot, though they’d not acted as husband and wife for the entire year preceding their anniversary. In their argument, he promised her a masquerade because it was the loftiest party he could throw, and as the preparations came together, the date drew near and he thought it best to schedule it in concordance. It was pure anxiety that had prohibited him from announcing the significance of the date to the world, and to her. What if she hadn’t remembered? Or worse, what if she had and did not find the occasion warranted celebration? Perhaps the awful morning after ruined any pleasant thought she had of their wedding and she dreaded an annual reminder of it?

No. With so many horrible possibilities, it was easier on his heart to keep it to himself. Yet now, seeing her contentedness, he felt foolish for his fear. “Happy anniversary, Sansa,” he finally replied, and then quickly corrected, “Last night.”

The way her eyes followed him as he strode toward the door, had him seriously reconsidering his decision to depart. He had thrown his coat on and left it unbuttoned, letting it flap open carelessly as he carried his shirt and shoes. Damn anyone who caught him in the hall and judged him for his indecency. It was his own home after all, and he’d been leaving his wife’s chamber. How many men could say the same the morning after a masquerade? 

Sansa’s gaze slid down to his bare chest and darkened with interest. If she hadn’t been holding a baby… If he hadn’t been leaving… If his hand had not landed on the doorknob... 

“My lady?” Daisy called down the hall, dousing whatever fire they were kindling. 

Stannis drew a deep breath and retreated while he still had enough sense to.   

  
  
  
  



	16. Volunteer

Sansa took each step down the stairs carefully, running her palm over the polished wood railing, her fingers lingering over the filagree that decorated it. She had been lady of the house upon declaring, _I do_ , and even more so since she had birthed the heirs destined to inherit it. Yet it wasn’t until that very morning that she finally felt as though she had any claim at all to Dragonstone. Stannis was the lord of the manor and he had silently granted her right to the estate through his expressed desire for her.

It had not been love--as he would have said so, if it was--but instead a desperation that they had shared. It somehow equalized them, both so rash in their shamelessness that their lust had turned brutal and reckless. An entire year of pressure built until it violently erupted and poured down his shaft and her thighs, leaving them both utterly tacky for each other. She would never want another man as she had Stannis Baratheon, and judging by the way his appetite for her carried over into the next morning, she would assume his desire for her was no passing fancy. Perhaps in time she might win a permanent place in his heart as he had hers.  

He waited outside the small dining hall they used for mornings with a slight curl to his lips as he watched her descend the stairs. His chest was puffed out as proud as a peacock and by the ease with which the air filled her lungs, she supposed her posture mirrored his. Her palm slid smoothly into his and she stared into his eyes as he bent to press a kiss to the back of her hand. The gesture may have been considered garish to others, their courting days well past over, but she relished his affection regardless. A public display was not his style, and therefore all the more endearing.

They said nothing to each other, only held each other’s gaze as one of their footmen held the door open for them. Sansa finally tore her eyes from his as she turned to pass through first, as was proper. Stannis was fast behind her, quick to lengthen his stride and advance past her and gesture to the vacant seat beside his at the head of the table. It had always been her place when guests were present, however, it felt all the more special now. There was a distinct difference between pandering to societal expectation and truly meaning one’s actions, particularly in regards to another.

Stannis took his seat and leaned back to allow the servant to place his breakfast before him. It was only when Lady Margaery groaned, “No eggs, please,” that Sansa’s attention divided.

“Cook makes an exquisite breakfast,” she assured her, pushing her lust aside to play the part of the polite hostess to their friends.

Loras snickered across the table from his sister. “She has a touch of the Irish flu this morning.”

Admiral Selmy dabbed at his lips with his napkin before offering, “I find dry toast is quite helpful on the rare occasion when I’ve imbibed too much.”

Robert interjected, speaking around a fatty piece of bacon he was in the middle of chewing. “No, toast won’t do. It’s about the grease. It coats your innards and keeps the seas from churning.”

Sansa never appreciated how Robert always attempted to sound more worldly than he was. She doubted that he had ever spent any time at sea to comment truthfully on the patterns of waves and winds. He was a fraud, and only respect for his relation to Stannis kept her from saying as much.

Her eyes slid back to her husband, strong and regal beside her. He took great care in all things, even his breakfast. Each bite of egg paired with either a bit of bacon or a corner of toast, offering his tastebuds the perfect balance of flavor. Watching him enjoy his meal brought to memory the way he feasted upon her in the still dark hours of the morning. He was greedy and yet so benevolent at the same time, his tongue tenderly targeting between her folds to curl her toes and lift her hips.

What she and Stannis shared was far from a woman’s duty, too much pleasure to be had for it to have ever been truly sanctioned and approved by the church. And yet, caught in the heat of his salacious gaze, she could not bring herself to care for a pious life.

“You have splendid color in your cheeks--unlike the rest of us,” Cersei observed, shaking Sansa from her thoughts. Her grin was much like that of the cat who caught the canary, smug and well-aware of what she was shining light upon. “Perhaps you turned in early last night?”

“ _Perhaps_ Lady Sansa simply exercises a greater degree of restraint,” Lord Jaime interjected. He offered her a sympathetic smile before clicking his teeth at his sister. “A trait lost on most of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Robert boomed down the table, gobbling up another strip of bacon. “I’m no worse for wear, and neither are you.” He swallowed the meat with a cough before adding, “Though your tardiness no doubt had a hand in your health.”

“Tardiness?” Sansa asked, taking the opportunity to avert attention from her fine coloring.

Cersei flashed her a smirk that promised she knew exactly what she was up to. Sansa pursed her lips and avoided her friend’s gaze, refusing to stand trial for what lay between man and wife. It was not so much that she had committed no crime, or that the proposed judge and jury was a confirmed adulteress, but that Sansa had somehow come to value Cersei’s opinion, and disliked the idea that she may not approve of her behavior. It was absurd, truly. The woman had exposed her bare backside to a masked man in a clandestine meeting at someone else’s estate...her opinion could hardly be so harsh.

“I came in late,” Jaime explained, filching a pat of butter from his sister’s place setting. “Business to attend to back at Casterly.”

It was not out of the ordinary for Jaime to attend events late, though it reminded Sansa that she would have to ask Davos what other gentlemen arrived after the party had been in full swing. She would discover Cersei’s lover, and have a grand time of playing detective in order to do so.

“We are pleased you were still able to join us, however late,” Stannis said congenially. He then set his hands to either side of his plate, and allowed the tip of his ring finger to lift and graze over her pinky.

His movement had been too subtle for anyone else to notice, anyone but Cersei who had the eyes of a hawk. She quickly hid her smile behind her cup of tea, and then moved the small butter dish to her other side, thwarting her brother’s attempt to take any more from her.

Refusing to neglect her husband’s attentions, Sansa lifted her smallest finger to return the secret caress. She kept her head turned to their guests, thinking if she held their conversation, they would remain none the wiser to her impudent pining. Forcing herself to find the thread of discourse, she offered mildly, “I find no fault in one’s dedication to their business affairs.” She smiled to Jaime as she explained, “It demonstrates how seriously you take the task of providing for your estate and the people on it.” The fact that he was notorious for residing more at his twin’s home than his own notwithstanding.

Jaime dipped his head in her direction. “It is kind of you to say.”

Cersei rolled her eyes and smiled. “Don’t indulge him, Sansa. One should never compliment a man for achieving the expected. It inflates their ego unnecessarily.” She turned to face her brother as she added, “Praise should only be offered when extra efforts are made.”

They shared a look Sansa didn’t quite understand, other than to know that it did not include her. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would have been like to be so close to her own siblings.

“You are too cruel to your brother,” Margaery interjected, her smile forced and wary. Sansa admired the way she tried to rally her spirits while so under the weather.

“No more than you are to yours,” Cersei replied, lifting her nose at her.

Margaery scoffed at that, poorly concealing a grin that was proving to become true. “I am not cruel! Am I, Loras? Tell them.”

Loras swallowed his last bite and chuckled. “Sweet sister, your conditioning may be considered cruel to onlookers, though I assure you, I would be lost without it.”

Sansa felt the tip of Stannis’ boot touch her foot under the table and she bit the inside of her cheek to tame her happiness. Quick to deflect any attention she might draw, she asked, “Conditioning?”

“Oh yes.” Loras mimicked her voice as he said, “Do avoid favoritism with ladies, I’ll not suffer a scandal in this family over your thoughtlessness!” He lifted a finger to shake it mockingly. “One helping per person, Loras, men don’t eat for two.” Pursing his lips, he straightened his posture, his voice still high. “Sit up straight, slouching wrinkles your suit. It is positively uncouth.”

If looks alone could murder, Margaery’s warranted the prompt presence of an undertaker. Before she could open her mouth to defend herself, Loras laughed. “She’s worse than Grandmama. Always convinced I’ll humiliate her with my human imperfections.”

That was quite possibly the most that Sansa had ever heard uttered from Loras’ lips. He was usually so caught up in daydream that his only interest ever seemed to be in food and drink, and perhaps the sight of himself in the mirror. How strange it was now have his inner thoughts so revealed.

“I believe they call that _nagging_ ,” Robert piped up, narrowing his gaze at Cersei.

She said nothing in return, only lifted her glass and took a sip that exuded hate.

“Some would call it that.” Selmy chuckled at Robert. “I’ve found women make it their life’s work to assist us in bettering ourselves. Wouldn’t you say, Stannis?”

All eyes shot to him at the head of the table, his finger curled over Sansa’s. He cleared his throat, not expecting such a sudden shift in attention. “Ah, well…”

Sansa bit back a smirk, watching him struggle. The poor man was caught trying to decide who to appease--his superior ranking officer, or his wife. It was clear he worried that agreeing with Selmy might upset Sansa, and yet she found no fault in Selmy’s opinion. The only issue Sansa took with his words, was that they were specific to women.

It was the effort of _both_ men and women to better each other, marriage being the very insistence of that. Though the relationships were not limited to only the romantic, mothers and sons, sisters and brothers, all manner of man and woman were meant to learn from another. Why else would God have gone to the trouble of dividing the race into two separate genders if they weren’t meant to labor in tandem?

“My wife has certainly made a better man of me,” Stannis responded carefully.

He had been looking at Selmy when he spoke, but allowed his gaze to drift to hers so that she might see the sincerity of his words. Sansa felt her heart grow even fonder for him, surprised to find it possible, as it was already so inclined. Anticipation of the day that he may return her love, was growing overwhelming. It was wonderful to know that he desired her body, being that she had feared he hadn’t wanted even that not so long ago. Still, she needed him to cherish her for more, and it was moments like these that further fueled her desire.

Selmy set his napkin down on his plate and gave a hearty grin. “One never need worry for the ships that sail under your command, for your ability respond so well under pressure is unparalleled.”

The small quirk of Stannis’ lips told her that he appreciated the praise. It was right that he take pride in his accomplishments. It was also nice to see him so pleased, both by home and vocation. Feeling energized by such mirth, Sansa turned to tease Selmy. “Oh no, you don’t!” Her dimples flared, ruining any attempt at appearing truly cross. “There will be no talk of voyages today, sir! I am still recovering from the last time you ordered him from my side.”

Selmy paused at that, his expression puzzled. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”

“What’s not clear?” Robert sighed, bored with the conversation. “She doesn’t appreciate you calling her man to duty. Unlike Cersei-” He scowled her way as he slid his empty plate away from him, too impatient to wait for the server to remove it. “She would take any opportunity to be rid of me.”

Cersei gave a light patronizing laugh. “If only more presented themselves.”

“Let’s not fall into dramatics,” Jaime warned his sister through his smile.

Amid the family dynamics, Sansa glanced to Stannis and was surprised to see his posture turned rigid. His eyes opened wide and his arms tensed on the table as if ready to eject himself from his seat at any moment and give chase. Something was very wrong.

“Oh I do love dramas,” Margaery said from her side of the table, oblivious. “We should attend the theater before we leave. Shouldn’t we, Loras?”

He was certain to sound put upon when he agreed, “If we must.”

Sansa’s finger rubbed against Stannis’, trying to soothe whatever anxiety he suffered. It coiled him so tightly, bracing him for something truly wretched to come. What could be so horrendous that he would need to guard himself so?

Persistent, Selmy leaned forward to address her. “My lady, I have not ordered your husband to sea in many years.”

“ _Pardon?_ ” The word fell from her lips. The sound of her guests conversing dulled in her ears, leaving her only the sound of her own heartbeat as she stared back incredulously.

Selmy furrowed his brow and explained further, “Lord Stannis has such great respect for the calling, that we have not had to _assign_ him in many years. He has volunteered to join us for every one of his tours.”

The blood in her veins chilled and sent a shiver up her spine. Sansa blinked back hot tears as she stared at Selmy, unable to turn to Stannis for confirmation. His finger graze over hers and she snatched her hand up quickly, a wave of nausea crashing in her gut. Her mouth watered and she swallowed the bile down, no longer able to tolerate his touch for his betrayal.

 

 

 


	17. Misfortune

Stannis was a fool. 

A selfish fool who had abandoned his blushing bride for the singular purpose of avoiding his own insecurities. He ran to the only place he had ever found any semblance of safety. How damaged was he that his only comfort was turbulent waters and warfare? His childish hiding, left her to find her way in his home as she carried his children. For seven bloody months, she had nothing of him but the seed she nurtured. He was more than a fool, he was a selfish ass.

She evaded his gaze, making a poor attempt to conceal the disgust she had just cause to feel. Sansa had accepted his proposal with a mind for fair exchange, completely innocent to the many ways his heart would twist him away from anything meaningful. If he hadn’t been so broken by his past, he would have recognized affection as something to bask in, not cower away from. 

_ Burn in hell, Selyse!  _

Pursing his lips, he bit down on the inside of his cheek. Cursing the dead only brought about more misfortune--something he was already burdened enough with at the moment. If he could just reach for her, speak to her in private, he could make amends for his past stupidity. 

That was assuming his efforts would prevail.

How could they? Stannis had no way with words, always picking the wrong ones to stumble over in the presence of a lady--his lady. It had been difficult enough for him to speak to Sansa when all that stood between them was his own self-doubt. Now, he knew without question that she couldn’t bear being in the same room as him, let alone listen to him stutter out pathetic apologies. 

She looked absolutely miserable, stuck in her seat, trapped by confines of propriety. Sansa was a true lady, in every sense of the word, and it was due to that, that she would not create a scene by storming off. Instead, she would quietly recoil from him in place, while false smiles spread across her lips for their guests.

This was not assumption, but instead fact, as she was already stealing herself away from the couple they made.  

First it had been her eyes, refusing to meet his. Followed by her hand, lifting away from his, avoiding the brush of his fingers over hers. Her feet came after that, and though the thick material of their shoes prevented any true closeness in touching toes, it still wounded him. Now she had gone so far as to swivel slightly in her chair to turn her back on him and save herself any accidental glance in his direction.

Sansa was making her escape without ever rising to take leave. 

No, he would not have it. 

For too long, he had known the distance of her mind and heart, only her body lingering behind. He had suffered that life for months and it nearly drove him mad. Whether she willed it or not, he was determined to keep her. Stannis prayed she would listen to his apology, however clumsy and inarticulate, and forgive him his early trespass.

As the dishes cleared away, Stannis excused everyone from the table, hot on Sansa’s heels. Cersei came swiftly to her side, an air of urgency in her step, so quick to reach her. Her gaze was intent as she asked, “Take a stroll in the garden with me?”

Panic rose in his throat as Stannis imagined Sansa fleeing from him and surrounding herself with barriers disguised as friends. If Margaery was also meant to act as shield maiden, she had missed the silent glance that called her to arms. Instead, she was otherwise engaged, tittering in Selmy’s ear over how helpful the dry toast was. Though, it was clear from her pallor that it was not.

“Of course,” Sansa responded, her voice hollow. 

Cersei drew her close, intuitively knowing she required strength and readily giving it. Stannis stepped forward as they turned their backs on him, forming an impenetrable wall he hadn’t the tools or skill to scale. 

No! 

This wasn’t how it was meant to go, not at all. He had planned to excuse them and Sansa would remain behind with him out of a sense of duty. She would bristle, of course, and he would apologize profusely. Perhaps just maybe she might then forgive him, deeming his remorse true. 

A hand clasped his shoulder and he tensed, looking around him for the offender. Jaime Lannister’s catlike grin gleamed back at him, his words low as he said, “ _ Easy _ man.”

A low growl passed Stannis’ lips by way of question. 

“Ladies dislike being uninformed, moreso when in the presence of company,” Jaime said as they trailed behind. “Naturally, you wish to smooth the feathers that have ruffled.”

Stannis released a breath and relaxed his fists, listening to Jaime’s wisdom. For a confirmed bachelor, the man had a keen eye for the dance of romance, observing each dip and twirl. 

“To do so requires a gentle hand--not chase.” Jaime tilted his head toward Robert to illustrate the point of poor handling. 

Relinquishing all pretense, Stannis whispered, “What do you suggest?” 

Jaime’s eyes shot to Cersei. “You will find her more willing to listen when she has no one else filling her ears with opinions and advice--however well meant.” 

Before Stannis could say anything in response, Jaime added, “Allow me.” 

Without further ado, he stepped forward and gripped his sister’s arm. “You’ve forgotten my invitation to view the garden.”

“I have not,” she scowled, her eyes darting over to Sansa as if to indicate her reason for neglecting him. “I only thought you might more appreciate your time spent with hunting.”

“And give up quality time with my dearest sister?” His expression verged on comical, his mouth hung open and his eyes wide in disbelief. Really, the man could have seen fit to consider joining an acting troupe.  

“ _ Jaime _ ,” Cersei chided. “Now is hardly the time-”

“It is quite alright, Cersei,” Sansa interrupted. Her smile was faint as she said, “I’m actually quite fatigued from the late night, and wish to rest a little longer.” 

Unwilling to miss the opportunity she unwittingly presented, Stannis spoke up. “I’ll escort you.”

“That’s not necessary,” she rebuffed curtly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sansa.” Margaery spoke from the doorway, still wrapped tightly around Selmy’s arm. “It is sweet for a husband to escort his wife, is it not?”

Sansa forced a smile as she politely refused again. “It’s quite alright. I know my way.”

“There is no question of that,” Stannis quickly assured her. 

“ _ Excellent _ .” She tensed at the sound of his voice, quietly fuming, “I did have seven months of solitude to learn the layout, should there be any doubt as to the degree of my independence.”

Stannis swallowed. She was as angry as he feared.

Words were getting him nowhere--as anticipated. Action was the only solution to such a predicament. He gripped her hand in haste and tugged her forward, unwilling to miss his chance. She was too aware of appearances to wriggle away from him, though he could feel her resistance as he guided her up the stairs. 

Once they were out of sight she hissed, “ _ Release me. _ ” 

“Will you flee if I let you go?” The question was much more vulnerable than he had intended. 

She said nothing in response and so he maintained his hold, even going so far as to tighten it a fraction for good measure. They walked in silence, but for her huffs of poorly concealed frustration, until he reached the door to his chamber. He had a mind to pull her into it and convince her to stay indefinitely, even if it meant blisters on his tongue. 

Sansa was, unfortunately, of another mind. 

Where he had stopped before his door, she paused only so long as to realize it wasn’t her own, and then continued past him. Stannis spun around and caught up to her as she made for her chamber. “Stop,  _ please _ .”

She stilled. 

Stannis drew a deep breath, surprised by her obedience. Had it been because he had beseeched her, or because somewhere deep down, she had wanted to be caught? Slowly, he rounded her, until they were face to face. With no other present to disapprove, he was witness to the true weight of her vehemence. 

Her pupils had turned to pin pricks in her fury, her nostrils flaring through tight, controlled breaths. She was wild with emotion, ready to snap her tether and trample him as she charged past. His body responded to the raw energy radiated by such indignation, sending blood rushing below his belt. The timing was terrible--he knew that. And yet, his arousal grew entirely of its own will. 

“ _ Yes? _ ” She grit through her teeth, seizing his attention away from the tight press of his trousers. 

Stannis silently cursed himself. She was hurt, and he was hard. Spending the night in her bed had only left him more concupiscent than before, and that was hardly a boon to them now. Had he always been this callous, or only when sensitivity was warranted? He was an absolute ass, an utter fiend. He had always known it, and she had the misfortune of being such and apt pupil--fast learning his faults. 

She stood impatiently staring at him, waiting for him to speak aloud all the things his pursuit of her had promised--what her lack of dismissal indicated she might truly need to hear. Would she forgive him then?

Stannis opened his mouth, only to allow a deafening silence to pass. No apology seemed adequate enough, no explanation valid, no reasoning sound. His mental state in the past year, now felt like a lifetime ago, and quite deranged. It was difficult enough for him to accept and make amends with the man he was--to expect her to as well, was absurd. 

Giving up hope of a response, she averted her gaze and scoffed. 

No! He was losing her! 

Sansa made to walk by him--to leave him. The animal within refused to lose his mate, and shot his hands out like bolts of lightning. He caught her arms and pulled her up against him, his lips--on instinct--cutting off her startled cry. 

If the night before had taught him anything, it was that they could communicate on a different level. Where English had failed him, perhaps the private language of their lovemaking would succeed. His kiss would profess his devotion. His fingertips would spell out his apologies as they smoothed over her bare flesh. The way his eyes met hers, while she held him deep inside, would tell the tale of his transformation from cynic to romantic.

Only Sansa had no use for such translation. 

He felt the resistance of both her palms, pushing him back, prying his lips from hers. When he blinked his eyes open to gauge her expression, he was met with a stone wall of indifference. 

“Will that be all?” 

Each one-syllable word felt jagged and cruel, clawing at his heart. 

“ _ Sansa _ ,” he begged.

“I offered you the opportunity to explain,” she said, her voice clipped and cold. “I ought to have known you would have wasted it on petty seduction.”

_ Petty seduction? _

Stannis needn’t ask her meaning, as she was quick to continue, “I had naively hoped that in time you would value my company for more than a fat purse and sexual gratification.” She grimaced as she spat sourly, “I understand all too well now; you never intended to love me. Not from the very start.”

Too stunned by the venom in his young bride’s bite, Stannis staggered back and let her go. She whirled away and had taken not two steps before she screeched to a halt at the sound of Daisy’s shrill scream. 

Stannis lurched forward, catching himself on each foot fall toward the nursery, passing by Sansa. She was not far behind, her skirts catching and slowing her down. Daisy met them at the door, tears streaming down her cheeks as she cried, “It’s Brynden! He’s caught the fever!” 

“Give him to me,” Sansa commanded, snatching the bundle from Daisy before the girl could protest. She peeled back the blanket to better see his face, beet red and swollen. 

Fear fisted his lungs, denying Stannis the air to breathe. He stared down at the rash crawling up his son’s throat, and knew death was imminent. Brynden had felt so warm in his arms that morning, and so very docile. They had believed him merely fatigued from his feeding, never once considering that the child was feverish. And what of little Steffon? Was he afflicted as well? The boys shared a cradle. 

“Call for the doctor.” 

Entirely unable to tear his eyes from his child, Stannis stood paralyzed. God had taken Shireen from him though such illness, and now he was coming to collect his infant son. He was no heavenly father, despite the psalms that said so. A true father would understand the limits and not stoop so low as to attack another through his innocent children. 

“GO!”

Startled by her roar, Stannis shook loose from the trappings of his fear and guilt. Blue flames raged in Sansa’s eyes, her mouth screwed in anguish as she clutched the child to her breast. 

Knowing not what else to do, Stannis sprinted into action, bolting down the hall. He called for Davos--for anyone that could hear him. It was Loras’ dimwitted expression that appeared first in the hallway. “What is the matter?” 

“A doctor!” Stannis called frantically.

“What for?” Robert asked, coming up the stairs. 

“Damn it!” Stannis growled, “Just call the doctor!” 

“Alright, man,” Loras agreed, though clearly not understanding why. 

Stannis made no attempt to move until he watched Loras spin on his heel and start down the stairs. 

“What is the meaning of this, Stannis?” Robert asked. “Who’s hurt?” 

Stannis did not bother to reply, only turned back toward his family. It was then that he felt the crush of his collar against his windpipe stopping him short and landing him flat on his arse. He blinked as he looked up to see Robert staring down at him, his words more determined as he repeated, “ _ Who’s hurt? _ ”

“Brynden,” Stannis barked, coughing. “He’s got the fever.”

He was hauled up faster than he could scramble. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he was off again, until he was stopped abruptly--again. Robert’s meaty fists gripped his biceps and held him firmly in place. “If he’s got the fever, you can’t go to him.” 

To hell with that!

Stannis struggled against him and when that proved fruitless, he reared back and kicked his brother’s shin out from under him. Robert howled in pain and released one arm, which was just enough for Stannis to whirl around and land a blow that loosed the tooth that tucked behind Robert’s canine. 

Robert let loose a litany of curses as he lunged forward and muckled onto Stannis harder, ramming his forehead in the back of his in retaliation. “Don’t be crazy!” 

Stannis was mid-fight when he felt another pair of hands join Robert’s, securing him in place. “ _ Breathe _ ,” a deep male voice ordered in his ear. 

Adrenaline had turned his eyes wild, every image sharper, every color so much clearer. It was Jaime Lannister at his side again. Apparently, Cersei had talked him out of their stroll, though Stannis couldn’t care about that now. 

Robert was strong, but Jaime was stronger and while Stannis could struggle on his right side, his left side was rendered immobilized under the Lannister’s hold. Still, he fought his restraints. His cry was strangled. “ _ Sansa _ !”

Davos appeared before him, his expression forlorn as he said, “I am sorry, my lord.”

Stannis stilled, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. 

“We’ve quarantined the nursery and Lady Sansa’s chamber,” Davos explained. He averted his gaze as he admitted, “With both her and Daisy in it.” 

“No!” 

Stannis bucked hard against his restraints, more determined than ever to get to his family. Davos stepped forward, bracing himself against his chest to help hold him back.

“Please, my lord,” Davos cried.

“You can’t go to her,” Robert growled. “It’s a death sentence!”

“Sorry, man. The risk is too great,” Jaime purred.

 

 


	18. Our Despair

Days spent confined to her room had her mind racing in a million different directions, all leading to places that only brought more despair. The most prominent one being her children’s funeral. Stannis would stand proud beside her, looking as sullen as ever. That was assuming she survived. Being in such close proximity to the illness that was slowly taking her children offered less than favorable odds. What would become of her husband then? Would he remarry as he had with her? Or, perhaps he would decide that two dead wives and three dead children were plenty to keep him from ever attempting a family again. 

The ugliest part of herself wanted the latter. Her more Christian self knew Stannis had a right to happiness, even in the wake of all they had lost. Her eyes darted to the broken bits of plaster on the wall where the sconce had been, taunted by the memory of the masquerade and the way he took her. Together they shared such unbridled passion and in the span of a breakfast it was all washed away, clearing room for only fear and death to sit in its place. 

As quickly as these thoughts arose, they vanished when she considered an alternate reality in which she survived her children. How truly awful that would be. How would she remember them--with a lock of their hair kept in her jewelry box? She would finger it in her most private moments, desperate to call forth the memory of holding them close as she did Brynden now. Whatever desire Stannis had for her would most certainly vanish when she dared survive his heirs. Unsure if that would be more blessing than curse, Sansa appreciated what they had. Stannis touched her in a way that she had never been touched before and yet to suffer such passion now seemed almost suffocating. Should his hand ever wander to her breast while his children lay cold in the ground, she would only think that much less of him. 

No. He wouldn’t. It was not his way. At least, she hadn’t believed it was, until he kissed her in the hall. As if that had offered all the explanation she had asked for. In reality, while it wasn’t what she wanted, it had explained a great deal. There was no more denying deny the sad fact that she had been married for her pedigree, a pretty face and fertile vessel--pure and untouched. Sansa would curse him for that truth if it mattered anymore, but it did not. Her children were ill, and she wasn’t equipped to cure them. Only a doctor could offer even the slightest chance of hope, and one had not been readily available.

Luwin had been called to to the Capital at the queen’s request some weeks past, leaving only Pylos as the nearest doctor in the vicinity. It was a day’s ride to his not sure clinic is a 19th century word clinic and then of course as much back--marking a minimum of a two days wait for examination. Fevers took the lives of so many innocent children in less. 

Sansa had known it would be longer, as Pylos was young and had so many books to bring along. He would need to travel by carriage, which would slow him down even more so. On any other occasion, she would have appreciated his thorough attention to detail and unconventional approach. The man would turn the pages of his large books, making quick study of their contents as he encountered each malady. But Though such indulgence could not be tolerated now, not while her the children’s welfare was at stake. Every millisecond counted towards their survival.

Sansa paced her room, cradling the small bundle in the crook of her arm, cooing to Brynden’s cries and calling upon the last of her patience. Patience for Doctor Pylos, for Brynden’s shrill screams, for her husband’s selfish needs, and for her own helplessness.

Steffon’s whimper from the other room was a dull refrain to his brother’s. His cry was of loneliness without his twin, and worry for the pain Brynden suffered. Sansa loathed to separate them, but by some miracle, Steffon had yet to show any sign of illness. Trying to keep the fever from spreading to her other child, Sansa ordered that he be sequestered away in the nursery with Daisy while she remained in her room with Brynden. The very moment she rushed to him and took him from Daisy, she had sealed her fate. It was just a matter of time before she lay in bed fevered, as well.

Davos had closed off the entire hallway, displacing those who roomed nearby. At certain times throughout the day, he would leave food outside their doors. They were not to open their doors to retrieve their trays until he had knocked on the wall twice, signaling that he was back safely behind the locked door to the hall. Sansa supposed it was best that way to save as many from catching the illness as possible. 

All the guests had evacuated themselves with great haste at the mention of quarantine. Provided they survived this, Sansa did not expect they would be hosting again for quite a while. Word would spread to all listening ears that fever came the night after Lord and Lady Baratheon’s Masquerade. People being superstitious, would naturally assume a correlation between the two events and politely decline invitations should they be sent. 

Sansa glanced down to her simple dress, bedraggled and stifling, recognizing herself hardly in a state to care much for parties anyway. Daisy coughed from time to time in the room next door, a dry tickle in her throat reminding them both that the air had grown stale. Though they opened their windows, it did not seem action enough. As much as Sansa craved the fresh air, she hated having them open, too frightened that any innocent bystander passing by may catch the fever on a breeze. Daisy promised that God would carry the illness up into the sky and away from people, though Sansa doubted that. If God had a mind to save innocent lives, he would not have allowed children be infected in the first place. 

Too many times, Sansa stared out the window and wondered how it had happened in the first place. Daisy suspected all the additional staff they had hired for the party. Not all of them came with impeccable references, and most of them had traveled some from event to event, assisting the regular servants with preparations. Sansa wondered about the decorations, coming from out of town and handled by so many. The origin could not be pinpointed, only the malicious nature of the illness, to seek out and attack the most vulnerable first.  

Sansa bared her breast to little Brynden, hoping to coax him to suckle and soothe his aches and pains. The boy squirmed and fought at first before hungrily rooting for her nipple and gorging himself, in big swallows. “There, there,” Sansa murmured down to him as she walked. 

“My lady?” Daisy spoke through the door. “Davos says the doctor has arrived.”

Sansa rushed for the window, forgetting her appearance. Pylos did indeed arrive by carriage, and as expected, servants carried his books in a trail behind him. Around him were Davos, Selmy, Jaime, Robert, and  _ Renly _ ?

Why in God’s name had Renly decided to appear?

“Daisy?” Sansa called behind her.

“Yes, my lady?” Daisy coughed. 

“It was my belief that all of our visitors had left,” Sansa replied, awaiting an explanation. 

“The majority, yes.” Daisy paused before adding, “Lord Baratheon and Lord Lannister sent Lady Cersei away with Lady Margaery. Lord Tyrell accompanied them and ensure they were out of harm’s way.” 

Of course. 

It was only logical that they would vacate the women first, what with them having such weak constitutions. Why the men would stay behind was beyond her. Despite their egotistical beliefs, illness favored no one gender--the risk was just as great. “Lord Robert and Lord Jaime have not seen fit to join them?” 

Daisy was silent for a moment before she said barely above a whisper through the wood, “They have remained behind for Lord Stannis.” 

“For Stannis?” Hearing his name spoken aloud had her coming to life, a twitch to her nerves and flicker in the beat of her heart.

“Yes, my lady,” Daisy replied, clearing her throat. “To manage him.” 

“To  _ manage _ him?” Sansa repeated, confused by such a foreign concept applied to the father of her children--the selfish man who had her damning him moments before, and inquiring about him now.

It was then that she spotted him standing by the carriage, and that flicker the mere mention of him caused turned to a squeeze around the great muscle of her heart. It had been days since she had seen him in the flesh, and she felt just as arrested by the sight of him now as she had that day down by the docks when she had gone seven months without him. In her angriest moments, she could cast blame on him for whatever she deemed appropriate, though one thing she could not claim as crime was his absence overnight since reuniting. He may have avoided her and sat in silence with her through many dinners, though never a day passed that she had not laid eyes upon him even just once throughout the course of their day. 

Sansa released the breath she held, not realizing she had kept it inside--or that simply seeing him had meant so much. Those seven months had been quite difficult, and learning that they were a choice turned a hardship into a cruelty. Whether this man was aware of it or not, he had heart and head at odds, on his whim. 

As if he could feel her watching him, Stannis turned and lifted his head. Blue eyes unlike any other locked with hers, blazing into them with all the fire he possessed, scorching her two stories away and through a pane of glass. Sansa blinked to break the spell, douse the flames and take him in. He was hardly recognizable, a storm raging over his features, so ravaged with worry for his children. Dark circles setting his eyes in deep while beryl tidal waves replaced his irises, no longer threatening to burn her, though remained set on consuming her whole. The purse of his lips and the obvious loss of both sleep and nourishment caved his cheeks in and sharpened the lines of his face. It had only been days and yet he looked as if he had been suffering months.

Barring her own father, Stannis had been the strongest man she had ever known--as fit as any half his age and ever confident in his command of many lives. It was not the courageous Rear Admiral that caught her spying him, however, but instead someone as impotent as she against an opponent as deadly and illusive as fever. A sliver of selfishness had her hoping his concern might extend so far as to her as well. To have such a devastating effect on someone would place her value beyond her physical attributes.

“His lord has not tolerated the separation well,” Daisy’s voice interrupted Sansa’s thoughts. She sounded more than a little restrained in her speech, attempting to paint a sweeter picture of Stannis than was apparently true. “Davos has intimated that there are moments in which he becomes quite  _ unruly _ .” 

Even from a distance, Sansa could see the stubble that formed on Stannis’ normally clean-shaven face. Her eyes drifted down farther to his shirt, recognizing it as the same one he had worn when she had seen him last. She would not have believed that he would remain in the same clothing, if she had not seen the rumpled state of his linen. Sansa would have to scold Davos for not taking better care of his lord--especially in her absence. 

“Lord Renly arrived only this morning to be of assistance to his lordship,” Daisy added. “He was on his way to Rosby and stopped in for a visit. Decided to stay on through the night to offer aid before continuing on his journey.”

Sansa had wondered what his self-serving motive had been. Considering, Dragonstone was on his travels, Renly would have stayed the night regardless of whether or not Stannis needed him. He definitely had not intended to stay any longer than he would have normally. It was polite of Daisy to phrase things in regards to Stannis’ family so altruistically, though it was still quite inaccurate. 

Renly’s narcissistic tendencies were hardly a grievous offense in light of everything. Pushing him from her mind, she tore her gaze from her husband and turned from the window. A loud growl sounded from outside and she whirled back around to see Stannis caught by Robert, Jaime, and Renly as he attempted to charge forward. 

“ _ Sansa! _ ” He screamed in frenzy, broken from the fine gentleman he was. Grief had transformed him into a feral beast set on reuniting with his young. Again, a small hopeful voice crept into her mind to add rather guilty,  _ and his mate.  _ She was still staring down at the scene Stannis made of struggling against his men on granite steps when a loud knock sounded on the door. 

Poor Brynden startled from his latch, milk pouring from the corners of his mouth as he cried. 

“Lady Sansa?” 

Not recognizing the voice, she decided it had to be Pylos at her door. “Yes, Doctor?” 

“Might I be admitted to your chamber?”

Sansa quickly covered her breast and swaddled a whimpering Brynden before reaching for her door. She had hardly the chance to properly greet him before he charged past her, staring straight ahead. Pylos dropped two heavy texts on her bed that he had been carrying with one arm and turned back to face her. His other hand held an ivory lace handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “Present the child, please.” 

Sansa glanced back at her open door, noting the empty hallway, before she extended her arms and offered Brynden to Pylos. Though she respected the importance of such precautions, she could not deny the dose of depression that struck when Stannis was not there. The muffled sounds of scuffle sounded through the window and she knew he wasn’t present because many men were subduing him. 

Pylos never accepted Brynden from her arms, only took one of his instruments and used it to peel back the blanket to better inspect. “How long has the rash on his throat been there?” 

“Since the fever started three days ago,” Sansa answered quickly. 

He nodded as if deciding she was telling him the truth. 

Anger rose inside her at that gesture. As if she would lie about her children’s condition. Or perhaps he thought she too stupid to adequately answer his question without him deciding the response appropriate. 

“And the other child?” He asked, interrupting her indignation. “I’m told he is a twin.”

“He is, and his brother does not have a fever,” Sansa assured him. She gestured toward the door to the nursery and explained, “He and his nurse are over there. We’ve been keeping them separate.” 

Daisy coughed from the other side of the door and Sansa heard Steffon’s cry. It did not sound hungry or especially pained, more fatigued. Pylos opened one of his books and flipped the pages quickly as he asked, “Has the nurse inspected his tongue?” 

“What?” Sansa gasped. “His tongue? Why ever would she do that?”

“Open the door,” he directed, waving his handkerchief hand toward it, while the other flipped past more pages. 

“My lady?” Daisy asked, not wanting to obey another so easily.

“Open it,” Sansa allowed. “Though, stay where you are when you do.” She hoped the space between them would be enough to protect Steffon. 

The door knob turned slowly and Pylos crossed the room in four strides. “Open the child’s mouth.”

Daisy eyed Sansa as she gently pinched little Steffon’s cheeks, forcing his mouth to open in protest. 

Pylos sighed. “I’ts as I suspected.”

“What is?” Sansa asked, feeling a cold wash of dread bead her brow. 

He turned to her, his eyes forlorn above the handkerchief. “Both children have Scarlet Fever.”

“No!” Sansa shook her head in denial. “No, you’re mistaken. Steffon is well.”

“He doesn’t have a fever, sir,” Daisy added, supporting her lady’s claim. 

It was then that Sansa noticed the pinkish hue to his cheeks from across the room and her stomach twisted itself inside. 

“He most certainly does.” Pylos gave Daisy a pitying expression as he said, “You haven’t noticed it because you are fevered as well, my dear.”

“ _ No _ ,” Daisy gasped. “No, I am not. It’s just this air, that’s all.”

Pylos ignored her shock and turned back to his books. Sansa followed him, needing answers. “Will they live?” 

He closed his books and turned to face her. Again, he offered pity. “It is possible--anything is.” 

She had no use for false hope. If he had meant to offer it as a kindness then he was sorely mistaken. It was the cruelest pain a doctor could inflict on a parent. “Why am I not ill?” 

Pylos sighed. “ _ Yet _ , Lady Sansa. You are not ill, yet.” 

Swallowing the lump that grew in the back of her throat, she asked, “How long do we have?”

“I have seen some weather on with it for weeks--some have survived it...others haven’t.” His lips pressed together and thinned into a tight line before adding. “ _ Most _ don’t.” 

A hundred sewing needles pricked the back of her eyes, forcing her to blink rapidly as she stared at him, abating the pain that hot tears brought. 

His own eyes softened and he frowned away from her before he reached inside his coat. “Once the fever comes on, take two drops every six hours. It won’t cure you, though it will ease the pain.” He handed her a small brown glass bottle filled with a clear liquid.

Sansa’s fingers wrapped around the bottle, her gaze dropping down to Brynden. 

Pylos shook his head. “It is not for infants to ingest. Their bodies are not developed enough to handle it. To give it to them would only hasten an unfavorable outcome.” Gathering his book back in his arm he bowed his head as he passed her. “I apologize, truly.” 

Sansa swallowed back a scream as the door clicked shut, sealing them in with their fate. Tears streamed down Daisy’s cheeks as she breathed, “My lady…”

No. 

There was no lady here. 

Not anymore. 

Sansa’s teeth clenched as she forced herself to set Brynden in his cradle. He squirmed the second she set him down, and rather than reaching for him, her hands gripped the sides of his cradle and squeezed until her knuckles turned white and pain shot through her wrists. 

Yelling and a loud crash sounded further down the hall, followed by Jaime’s growl of, “ _ Hold him! _ ” Renly’s cry, “He’s stronger than he looks!” and Robert hollering, “Keep it together, man!” 

Apparently Pylos had shared the unfavorable prognosis with Stannis and his keepers. No one else could possibly fathom her heartache but he, for it was theirs alone to let sink inside and fester. She could not imagine what it would do to him, though she knew it would take her life as surely as the fever threatened to murder her young. 

“My Lady,” Daisy tried again, a desperate trill to her voice. 

Sansa hardly recognized her own as she hissed, “ _ Leave _ .” 

Daisy did not require telling twice, closing herself and Steffon back into the nursery, allowing Sansa the moment alone. Shaking with fury and anguish, Sansa silently roared at the four walls of her captivity, cursing them for the coffin they would prove to become while Stannis raged just outside.

Until it was all so quiet and still. The air grew thick and her limbs grew heavy, exhaustion threatening to steal her consciousness and force her to fall prey to a restless slumber. Hours passed, marked by the ray of sunlight that shone through the window and slowly slid across the length of the room until it disappeared and darkness took its place. Sansa only stirred from her stupor to care for Brynden as he needed, returning back to her station slumped at the side of her bed. 

Eventually, the dinner knock sounded through the wall and Sansa ignored the tray that sat outside her door, having even less of an appetite than she had the last three days. Using dinner as an excuse to interrupt Sansa’s solitude, Daisy slowly opened the door to the nursery. “Do you still require us to remain here, my lady?”

Sansa heaved a great sigh. “No. There’s no point in separating them now.” And if she were being honest, she felt wretched about casting the woman off so easily. Daisy had stood by her side through everything and though she was in service, did not deserve such ill treatment. Sansa had forgotten herself in her grief, allowing her emotions to get the best of her, and that simply was not fair to the woman who shared her burden. A glance to Steffon reminded Sansa that Daisy had lost her own child not long before coming into service. 

“This must be so difficult for you.” Sansa blinked back a tear. “Having lost your own and now watching while-”

“No, my lady!” Daisy shushed her, shaking her head. 

Sansa wouldn’t be silenced as a wave of guilt took over. “I apologize for speaking so harshly to you earlier.”

Daisy stepped closer, holding Steffon in one arm, and reaching to rub her back with the other. “It is forgiven. Don’t fret over me, my lady. They are wonderful boys and it’s your right to worry and act out of sorts.”

Sansa cried into her shoulder, relieved to share such a large burden with another. Steffon hovered inches from her face and it was then that she realized she hadn’t held him in her own arms in almost four days. Sniffing back the errant tears, she cleared her throat and asked, “Give him here, then?”

Daisy smiled as she carefully handed him over. Sansa had meant to thank her, though no words came as she gazed down at the wonder of her son, feeling the warmth of him against her. Too long she had gone without him. 

She had just begun to trace his features in the darkness when Daisy lit the candles in her room. “Shall I get your dinner?”

The very thought of food had her stomach souring, though she knew she needed to eat to produce milk--milk that her sons depended on. Chewing was a chore, swallowing felt like punishment, and that full feeling in her belly did not soothe the way it once had. Meals were laborious and she left more than half of the offerings untouched. 

“You need to keep your strength up,” Daisy reminded her, pulling the tray inside. She needn’t  worry over Sansa’s non-answer. It wasn’t a rejection, simply a small act of rebellion. One that she would stifle as she brought the first bite to her mouth because she knew her children could not afford for her not to. Cynicism had her mind spinning cruel truths to herself,  _ Yes, I must eat so that I may be hale and hearty for the work of burying my sons. _

Entirely unaware of the poisonous thoughts that swirled in Sansa’s head, Daisy set the tray on the edge of the bed before venturing over to Brynden’s cradle. Sansa listened to her coo down at him, promising that she had missed him while she had been charged with Steffon’s care. Of course, she had. Daisy had been there since the babies’ birth and had spent as many long hours with them as Sansa. 

Sansa’s gaze flicked over to her tray. It held fresh cut flowers from the garden. It seemed silly for Davos to pay any mind to such frivolity, being that it was only her and Daisy, and the mood was decidedly morose. And yet, there was a kindness to the gesture that she appreciated. 

Beside it was a glass of wine, a full plate of roasted chicken and root vegetables, and a slice of buttered bread. Also on the tray was a small round lemon cake as dessert. Though the many meals that had been left outside her room continued to change, the dessert lacked in variety--always lemon cake. It was her favorite and she suspected Davos knew that, else he would not have allowed such repetition in the menu. 

“Might you this time, have the dessert?” Daisy asked from the rocking chair where she sat and nursed Brynden.

“Why?” Sansa asked aloud, thinking about much more than the baked treat before her. Food was nourishment, and she forced it down, not caring for flavor. Besides, she knew the meat and vegetables would offer her more strength than cake.

Daisy coughed again, this time harder than she had before and it took her a moment to swallow and open her eyes. “Because then I wouldn’t have to stuff it in a pillowcase before I leave the tray outside to be retrieved.” 

Sansa’s eyes snapped to hers. However confused she felt before, she was much more so now. “Why would you do that?”

“To save my lord from learning that you are not eating them,” Daisy responded. She took as deep of a breath as she could manage before she coughed again and had to start soothing Brynden from his cry. Her palm rubbed circles on his back as she said, “It’s him that keeps ordering them put on your tray. He informed Davos they were your favorite-”

“You mean Davos informed him,” Sansa corrected, her brow furrowed. It was safer to doubt her report than to give into the excitement that stirred inside at the thought Stannis might know her preferences through no other means than his own careful observation. 

Daisy shook her head, adamantly. “No. He told Davos, and insisted they always be offered.” She planted a soft kiss to the crown of Brynden’s head before she added, “I’ve been hiding them to save him the heartache of you rejecting his gesture.” 

Wondering why the woman might suddenly reveal her secret, Sansa asked, “Why are you telling me this now?”

Though Daisy spoke down to the child in her arms, she sounded so distant, so removed from her words. “Because I am not certain that I will be alive to remove the cake tomorrow night.” 

When she looked up from Steffon, Sansa noticed for the first time the tears that had rolled down Daisy’s cheeks. Though, she had doubted it possible for her heart to break anymore, Sansa found when she stared into Daisy’s frightened eyes, another piece of her heart shattered. 

 

 


	19. Crash and Break

It took a significant amount of self-control to foster the false belief that he had grown calm. Stannis knew only then would his guards finally allow themselves to blink, no longer keeping such close watch. Surely, they would then cease the work of sleeping in shifts to ensure he remained safely kept away from exposure. While Jaime and Robert’s devotion was appreciated--as well as Renly’s willingness to join the cause, it was also extremely irritating. What did it matter to them if Stannis threw himself at the fever sapping his children of their lifeforce? Renly and Robert could fight over Dragonstone for all he cared, and Stannis was sure there were limits to Jaime’s kindness, even if he had not yet discovered them. To hell with them all!

It was fortunate that more than many pleading glances from Stannis to Davos compounded to rob the man of his resolve. Having seen Stannis through the loss of Shireen, Davos would not curse him to repeat such suffering, and finally offered some assistance. It was with his aid that Stannis was able to tiptoe down his own hall to his wife’s chamber, careful not to alert anyone to his presence. Once at the door, he stood frozen, realizing even the sound of a knock could draw attention.

Bittersweet anticipation sped his heart and dried his mouth as he eyed the gold trim contrasting the robin’s egg blue paint. It had been such work just to reach this point, and now nothing but wood separated him from all that mattered in this earthly world. His hand shook as he reached for the door knob and gently grasped it, quietly turning. 

Only to be met with resistance. 

Stannis should not have been surprised to find that her door bolted shut. Sansa would have taken Davos’ precautions seriously, not wanting anyone harmed, perhaps especially not Stannis. He hoped he still held a place in her heart so as to garner such consideration.

When she had seen him outside he could tell by the look in her eyes that she hardly recognized the desperate creature he had become. Did she fear him--the man who required three others to restrain him? Though that truth would pain him, he would not blame her for it. Stannis was nothing like the man she had known less than a week before. He had been a gentleman to her, and only recently introduced her to the beast within set to rut shamelessly at whatever opportunity she provided. The primal creature that lurked beneath his fine dressing, however, had another side--one that faced all opposition with horn and hoof. The fever offered him no one to shred to ribbons but himself.

He doubted Sansa would understand, her composure still somehow intact when he saw her through the window. What a vision she was, her hair down and loose, blazing around her shoulders, her delicate features set in stone. The soft blue of her eyes had turned to sharpened ice, almost iridescent with their shine. He was bitten by their frost as she stared back at him, telling him without words that all action was futile. They were caught in a squall, forced to reef their sails and brace themselves on the waves that took them. Having weathered too many storms in his life, Stannis had finally learned that the damages tended to be much less when there was someone to hold onto. 

When Sansa turned away from the window, Stannis felt another current pull, taking the legs out from under him. He screamed her name, beseeching her to return, to be his anchor and keep him steady while fear and loathing battered his insides. 

Though he had laid eyes on her, she felt so far away. He could not touch her soft skin or hear her sweet voice, taste her lips against his or smell her light floral scent as he nuzzled into her for comfort. It was a torture that taunted the beast within until he lost control and snapped his lead. It was always right at that precise moment that Jaime and Robert stepped in, restraining him for his safety. He was so close to her now, however, in the earliest hour of the morning, with the moon still high in the sky and hidden behind clouds. So frustratingly close. Needing to see her again more than he did air to breathe, he tried the knob once more. 

“Who is it?”

Stannis let his eyes flutter closed to better hone his hearing and savor the sound of Sansa’s voice. It was an ethereal song in his ears, one he had feared he would never hear again.

“ _ Doctor _ ?” She asked, and in her tone he could see her furrowed brow of confusion. 

It was much too late for the doctor, though he could see why she would think it was Pylos at the door. No one else in their right might would attempt entry into a quarantined area. Stannis’ mind left him the very first time he heard the locks separating him from his family slip into place and felt Robert’s meaty fists on his shoulders, Jaime’s bulging biceps locking around his arms and holding him back. Worried Sansa might turn him away, should she know it was he at her door and not Pylos, Stannis cleared his throat and spoke with authority. “Open the door.”

Despite his attempt to distort his voice, Sansa recognized him instantly. “Stannis? Is that you?” 

He said nothing, caught. Before he could stammer a response, she added, “You can not be here.”

His heart sank. 

“It is not safe,” she explained, as everyone else had--repeatedly. 

Stannis hung his head and sighed. Too many times had he heard those exact words over the course of the past few days. Did she not realize that he could not care for his own safety--not when she and the boys were in such jeopardy. 

“ _ Go _ !” She hissed. Either because she still harbored hatred for him, or because she genuinely wished to save him, he wasn’t sure. 

His mouth opened and the words sounded so weak that he almost did not know his own voice as he asked, “How are they fairing?” 

Her voice softened as she reported, “They still eat, though they are sleeping more now. I can not be certain if that means their condition is improving or…”

She need not finish her sentence, and he appreciated that she did not bother to. What benefit was it to say what they all thought and feared?

“And you? How are you fairing, Stannis?” 

He snapped his head back up to the door, stunned by the question. Was there still room in her heart to care for the husband that betrayed her? “I am…” he trailed off, not knowing how to respond. No one had asked him that, only assured him that he would come out the other side of whatever fate lay ahead. Leaving no room for his own emotions to factor into the situation, he treated them much as one would an unwelcome guest, ignoring and often times pushing them aside. So vast and varied was the spectrum of emotions surging inside him, that only the most extreme presented themselves, repressing all else in their time of crisis. 

“Heartbroken.” The word came out before he could truly realize the truth behind such confession. 

“They are not dead yet!” Her words were bitter and hard, determined--offended. 

“I didn’t mean-” Stannis stopped himself, listening to muffled voices behind the door and another door opening. “What’s going on in there?” 

“I have asked Daisy to take the boys to the nursery so that our conversation may carry on more privately.” There was an edge to her words that told him she did not appreciate whatever death sentence his mind had given their children.

Stannis ran a hand through his hair and loosened his collar. “While I am quite concerned for our children, my heart suffers not only for them.”

She sounded nearer as she asked, “Then for who?”

Stannis imagined her as close to the door as he was and flattened his palm against the hard surface, wondering if she might be doing the same. Her question was innocent and yet still so intrusive. Self-preservation told him to skirt the subject of her effect on him. His own sense of reason reminded him that there was no preserving himself, not in the midst of such tragedy. Fortunately, there was courage to be found behind a closed door to act as shield. “For us. For what I have ruined with my cowardice.”

Almost certain he heard a sharp inhale, Stannis brought his other hand up to the door, bracing himself against the quiet that followed. Were she before him, he would have bitten his tongue and allowed her silence to stifle his attempt at communication. Though, with no expression to face, Stannis could continue. “To know what can never be mended between you and I.” 

It was with a renewed energy that she replied, “I am surprised that you would surrender so easily, after how much effort you must have put forth just to gain this audience with me.”

The corners of his mouth lifted unexpectedly as Stannis imagined her pursed lips and folded arms. Assuming she truly held such a stance, he was pleased to know her sorrow ebbed enough to allow other emotions. Letting his private smile take full bloom, he responded, “If only I knew where to begin.” 

“Most start with an apology.” There was no amusement in her quip, though more importantly, there was no fatigue in it either, but instead a note of irritation. She was coming back to life in the midst of their stolen moment. “Kissing--to better inform you--tends to follow,  _ not precede _ .” 

Stannis rubbed the back of his neck, and accepted her admonishment. “It was an attempt to tell you everything I failed to find words for.”

“Such responsibility to burden a kiss with.” It was as if she had somehow found a break in the despair they both felt for their children in order to chastise him. 

He would meet her in the mood if only for the excuse to lift the weight of their misery and give them both life. “Because of what it means to press my lips to yours.” He wet his lips as he remembered the way she melted against his mouth, and breathlessly added, “It is no small feat.”

“You exaggerate the truth.” He could almost hear the blush in her cheeks when she spoke. 

“Never. And that is often my fault,” he admitted, because it was suddenly so easy to. 

She cleared her throat, as if to gather her wits before she asserted, “You kissed me on the very same occasion we met.” Thankfully Margaery’s childish goading provided him with excuse enough to taste her lips. Though, Sansa did not know that, and dismissed it mercilessly. “It was hardly something that took you ages to agonize over.” 

“Oh, but it was.” Stannis felt heat rise under the collar of his shirt as he realized just how revealing this conversation was fast becoming. “I kissed you then because I hardly knew you, and though I could see your beauty, I hadn’t truly known it.” 

Silence followed while she digested that, and all of Stannis’ battle training told him to overwhelm her--to keep her from analyzing each new piece of information he shared. He wanted her to feel the truth, not decide upon it. “You were so brave, listening to such indecency and facing it with your head held high,” he praised. “You cared not that your friend was endorsing it, or that we were alone--or even for the money I could have promptly paid you off with.”

A muffled noise sounded through the door and when no words followed, he knew she needed more. “You were so enchanting, I could hardly stop myself from branding your lips mine in that library. Whether you knew it then or not, Sansa. I do not seduce women, do not put forth the effort or energy. To kiss you then--it was a declaration of pursuit.” Blood rushed to his loins as he remembered the way he pressed her into the wall and took as much as he could to hold him over until their vows. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and  _ needed  _ you from the time I tasted you.” 

His heart beat twice before her small voice whispered, “You speak of lust, Stannis. Only your desire for my flesh and nothing more.”

Only he knew there was more there, and he prayed his words would help her to see. “After I came to know you, holding you close and pressing my lips to yours seemed impossible.”

“ _ Impossible _ ?” She gasped. 

He nodded, as if she could see him. “You had come to mean so much more to me than what your body offered. There was suddenly a great deal at stake.” He hesitated, waiting to see if she would agree. When she did not, he assumed she did not yet fully understand. “What if you did not return my gesture, Sansa? What if in my greed to have you, I soiled your purity with my troubled heart? No, it was easier to avoid you, save you the blemish and myself the heartache.”

He wondered now if he truly had saved himself any pain. He was, after all, standing before a locked door, trying desperately to convince the woman he loved to allow him to die beside her and the children they shared. Could there be any suffering greater?

“Something changed your mind.”

Her challenge served to remind him, and were they to speak in any other fashion, he was certain the injury to his pride would never allow him to admit it as he was now. “Loras Tyrell.”

“Loras?” She asked with such familiarity that he could have grabbed the pretty boy by his throat and bashed his head repeatedly against the door before him until the barrier between him and Sansa was no more. It was as if she could sense his sudden rage, for she let out a light chuckle. One of disbelief and disapproving. 

“My jealousy amuses you?” He asked, perplexed. 

“It is wrong to let it, and yet here we stand,” she answered, her laughing slowly ceasing. “Solid oak between us, saying all the things we could not before.”

How true that was. 

Exploiting the opportunity laid before her, the humor left her voice as she asked, “You would be so honest with me now? When it matters the least?”

Every minute mattered, especially in a battle lost. It was time Stannis made the most of them. With all the strength he could rally, he admitted his shortcomings. “I am not romantic--not the handsome rogue you might find in any of your beloved novels. The only thing that I have ever truly been able to offer you is honesty.” 

“And yet, you withheld that from me.” She sounded closer to the other side of the door, near the hinges. Was she pacing? “For quite some time now,” she added, letting him feel the degree to which she was injured. 

He shifted his weight, turning his head, tracking her movements by her sound. “It was a grave mistake on my part not to tell you. To just assume you somehow knew how hard I labored for the courage to express myself freely, and somehow expect you might forgive my cowardice.”

She exhaled and a single light tap against the door had him wondering if she were resting her head against it. “I am no prophet, Stannis. Neither do I tell fortunes. I can not read your mind.”

He leaned forward and rest his head against the last place he heard her voice, pretending to rest it against her as he gave a rueful smile. “It would have made our romance quicker.” 

“Quicker?” Her gave a wry laugh. “We were married within a month of meeting. How much quicker had you in mind?” 

“I had not been referring to our wedding.” Marriages were arranged with little sentimentality, and great fiscal focus. He was not the same man now as he was then, and he ventured to believe she was not the same woman either. “I meant when feelings were developed.” 

Another light chuckle sounded as she caught him. “You admit you have a fondness for me!” 

He smiled. “I have never denied that, Sansa.” Avoided it, neglected to speak it--but never denied it. “Sansa, your mind is unlike that of any other woman, and your heart is the most beautiful ever created.” 

There was a pause as she considered his words,“Then why abandon me?” Her voice caught as she forced the words out. “Why return at all, only to so staunchly avoid me?” 

One fist clenched, wishing he could challenge her sadness to a brawl and rid her of it once and for all. “It is quite a difficult feat to spend your days with someone who does not return your affection. It brings nothing but misery that eats at one.”

Sansa sniffed before she asked, “Whyever would you believe your affection was not returned? Did I not seek you out often? Attempt communication? Offer myself so willingly…”

His hand slid over the wood in a soft caress, his fingertips tracing the trim, remembering their wedding night. The bold way in which she bared herself to him, offered him her maidenhead, and showed him what it was to be accepted in such a vulnerable state. “I coerced you into this marriage, Sansa. You were only doing your duty and that reality threatened all the fantasies my heart created, painting me the villian to your sweet innocent princess. The next morning, I found I could not face that horrible truth.”

“And what of me?” Anger and pain sounded in the timbre of her voice. “What of my fantasies?”

Stannis clenched his teeth as he imagined her alone in her room, crying herself to sleep each night he was away as her belly grew. “A better man would know what to say. I have no pretty words for you, Sansa. Only more disappointing truth.” He paused, a small part of him praying she might stop him, deciding she did not require every detail. Unfortunately, she remained silent, starved for explanation. He drew a deep breath and hung his head in shame as he continued his confession. “It was easiest not to consider you when I believed you felt nothing for me but obligation.” 

More silence passed and he felt his heart speed up as his mind raced to various conclusions about the degree to which she was growing to hate him. “ _ Sansa _ ,” he begged. 

She broke the lull, as she weeped. “Thank you for your honesty. I will not deny that I am wounded to know that if I had not been carrying your children, you would have  _ volunteered  _ for another voyage immediately after your return.”

Stannis closed his eyes and sighed. 

“You only stayed to see them born, with every intention of abandoning me again--and for what purpose? To escape your bruised ego while you labored under the false belief that I gave myself to you out of petty obligation!” She breathed quickly in between her words, her composure long lost. Anger mixed with sorrow as she fought his past self. “Because you were so smitten and could not suffer yourself a moment with me for it? No. I think not!” 

“Sansa?” He glanced down the hall, ensuring that the door was still closed. Her raised voice would wake the whole house if she carried on. “Shh, please.” 

Ignoring his plea to lower her voice, Sansa was determined to castigate him to the fullest measure. “You spin beautiful words that promise you desire more than my body, but they are untrue. You cast me aside because you did not feel anything for me past what your manhood stirred in you! Despite what you say. If it was love that lay in your heart, you could not bear the time apart--no matter what it cost you.”

“I am here now because I can not bear it, Sansa. Does that sound false to you? Does that ring of mere lust?” Stannis growled back, turning the doorknob again. 

She would not calm or quiet as she spat back, “And were it devotion you felt, for your trespasses, you would feel inclined offer an apology--something I still have yet to hear uttered from your lips!” 

Sansa was on fire and scorching his ears with her upbraiding, and he could not take a moment more of it. She could burn him to cinders if she wanted, so long as he had one last opportunity to hold her in his arms and show her how genuine he was. His grip tightened around the doorknob and he jiggled it, turning it more adamantly, as if the motion would loosen the lock.

Sansa quieted, the anger leaving her voice, replaced by anxiety as she asked, “What are you doing?”

He ignored her question. “Unlock the door.”

“No. You can not come in, Stannis.” There was a shrill to her voice that was not there before as she plead, “Stop, please!”  

“I can’t do that, Sansa,” he replied as he threw his shoulder up against the door with a loud thud. He could hear a stir of motion from down the hall, as everyone undoubtably became aware of his current whereabouts. “Sansa!” He begged as he stepped back and gained some momentum for his charge against the door.

“Stannis!” Robert bellowed. 

Robert and Jaime stood at the end of the hall, Renly hanging behind them. Frantic to gain entry before they tackled him, he growled against the door. “You would force me to live on as everyone I love dies around me?”

He did not hear the lock turn over his frustration, leaving him entirely surprised to find himself standing in her room. He stood stunned before her. She looked so small and fragile in her nightgown, her eyes wide with worry, tears streaking her cheeks and dripping from her jaw. Not willing to waste another moment, he rushed forward and crushed her to himself, kissing the top of her head and sighing with relief at the feel of her filling his arms again. 

“Oh hell!” Robert groaned from down the hall. 

“He’s inside,” Jaime confirmed. “It’s too late for him now.” 

“Should we leave then?” Renly asked.

Stannis wanted to shout that yes they should most definitely leave, but refused to divide his attention from the woman in his arms. She squirmed enough to lift her head and gaze back into his eyes. “Stannis-”

Unable to resist the lips that so softly called his name, he took them, to hell with the consequences. He hardly noticed everyone retreat back down the hall, their defeated remarks murmured to themselves. He could not care, finally finding peace. Stannis inhaled through his nostrils as he twisted and turned his head to catch more of her taste and scent. This was worth dying for, and he would damn well show her that, leaving no room for her to doubt his feelings ever again. 

What might have been a protest on her part turned to weak whimper as she melted against him and let him pour his heart over her lips. When he was satisfied that she was sufficiently tamed by his ardent affection, he knew it was time to give her the apology she deserved. He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs wiping away her tears, as he waited for her eyes to open. Certain that he had her attention, he whispered, “I love you, Sansa. So much so that the thought of never again seeing your smile, or hearing your voice, breaks me.”

Sansa dipped her head and made to look away. 

He held her still, refusing to let her shy from his declaration. “I felt an unyielding attraction towards you when I first kissed you in that library and convinced you to bind yourself to me in matrimony. I admired you for your bravery as you gave yourself to me. All those months at sea, my mind was left with little else but wanting--for you.” He leaned forward and teased her lips again, giving her an idea of how much he had missed her. “When I returned home to you carrying my children--charming my entire household, I was struck by your strength and your grace. Watching you with them, seeing how devoted and content you were to mother them, left me adoring you and aching for all your attention. Finding myself envious of our very own sons for the easy way you love them, I wished that I too was so easy to love.” 

Sansa swallowed. “Stannis, I-”

“Please do not feel obligated to return my sentiment,” he interrupted, too anxious that she would not. “Only know that there is nothing and no one that could ever fuse the pieces of my heart back together if I ever survived the loss of you and our sons. That running from you was fear and ignorance, and a mistake that I will regret until my last breath.”

Another tear escaped down her cheek and she blew out a breath, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “Stannis, I-I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he agreed and pulled her against his chest again, feeling entirely the same. To his surprise, she resisted. 

Pushing him back, she met his eyes again. “I’m scared of losing them, and you.” 

Stunned by that last part, Stannis stood still as she wrapped her small arms around him and hugged him tightly as she spoke into his shoulder. “I love you, too. Not out of duty or because you have fathered my children. Because you are strong and capable. Kind and fair. I don’t require romance, Stannis. Your honesty means so much more, and if I thought we might survive this, I would pray you be more forthright with it in the future.” 

Stannis had never been one for compliments, let alone hearing good opinions expressed of him, and often struggled with how to best accept them. Sansa moved in his arms, her head turning towards the door to the nursery. He longed to hold his sons, but would first soothe the woman he had fought so hard to have. Sansa admitted in a low whisper, “I had envisioned an entire life with you--with them.”

Stannis rubbed circles over her lower back as he promised, “If this is all we have, I am grateful we are sharing it together.”

She did not respond at first, and just when he thought they would remain in silence, she agreed, “As am I.” 

For so long, Stannis had allowed insecurity to gnaw at him and dictate his every action. It stole precious time from him, and almost cost him his marriage. Refusing to ever succumb to it again, he gave his heart freely and fell deeply in love with his wife. So much so, that he had lost his mind being apart from her. It was fortunate that she managed to keep her head and remain strong during their separation. Though, now that they were reunited, while he found his footing again, she finally felt safe enough to weaken.

The storm had not yet wrecked them, only transformed them from who they were before to what they needed now. Sansa had turned to tide, while Stannis became as constant and stable as the shore, allowing her to crash into him and break. He silently vowed to never again suffer a single day without her at his side, filling the half of his heart that belonged solely to her. 

After a while, Stannis heard her quietly ask, “Would you like to see them?” 

There was nothing they could not face, so long as it was together. “More than anything.” 

 

 

 


	20. Epilogue

Even those who had never been to Dragonstone, knew of its quiet and dreary state. It was well-know that Lord Baratheon’s territory was far from a welcoming one. Wrought with regrets and false assumptions that had only soured over time, the despair had grown thick enough to suffocate anyone who dared visit in those years before Stannis took a second wife.

Stannis often mused that God himself placed a kiss upon the crown of Sansa Stark’s head before sending her into this world. His blessing of kindness and beauty shielded her from the disappointment and decay that surrounded Dragonstone, allowing her to share the greatest gift ever given man: Life. 

It bloomed in what once was barren, transforming the estate into a proper home. The heavy drapes that had been drawn closed since before Shireen’s passing were ripped open and in some rooms down completely. Sunshine bathed everything in its warm light, shimmering the gold filigree and softening the wood grain panelling. Laughter filled the halls, echoing in the high cathedral ceilings of the ballroom and entry way, chasing away the ghosts of the past. 

Dragonstone’s transformation had been well underway since before Sansa had birthed Stannis his first sons, though he had been hiding so deeply within himself to realize it. How much he had missed in the first year of his marriage, he would never truly know and would always deeply regret. Like the angel she was, Sansa placed her palm over his heart and gently rebuked him for such contricion. In her soft and patient voice, she reminded him that they might never have developed such mutual respect and devotion had their romance been the easy one he once prayed for. Love was fought for and labored over--never arranged or expected. 

She taught him that, and so many other things.

“Steffon! Brynden!” The governess’ call sounded down the hall to pull them from their mischief and remind them of their lessons. 

The sound of small feet clamoring against the hardwood floor made Stannis smile, thanking the lord above yet again for such good fortune. The fever they had caught when they were infants had been terrifying and more than once throughout the ordeal, Stannis had cause to believe they might not recover. Brynden suffered the most of it, and Pylos had said when the boy grew older, he may experience trouble with his kidneys, though research was still inconclusive. Steffon’s fever only lasted a few days, though his rash remained much longer. The boys were strong, Stannis had known that since their birth, fighting their way into the world.

“Serena! Jocelyn!” The nursemaid, Martha called Stannis’ daughters. They had been born within a year of each other and therefore deemed “irish twins” though hardly as close as the real twins in the family. Serena and Jocelyn could hardly stand each other, each picking a brother to favor and avoid the other with. Brynden and Steffon, for the most part, rolled their eyes and ignored it--as much as any young child can ignore anything that irritates. 

Before she had passed, Daisy had promised that the girls would grow out of it. She had seen them both to walking before she grew ill again and passed away in her sleep. Pylos said that though she survived the fever by the skin of her teeth some seven years ago, it had damaged her insides enough to weaken her against any further infection. Logic had Stannis agreeing with the man, however, Sansa had declared Daisy’s death due to a broken heart. Her husband had never returned from the sea and was presumed dead. Daisy had soldiered on as long as her body would allow.

“My lord,” Martha startled in the hallway. 

Stannis smiled at the woman, as was polite to do and shifted his attention to the small child in her arms. Cassana, his youngest bat her big baby blues at him, her chubby cheeks dimpling at the sight of him. Stannis wondered if Daisy had fought back death to ensure that she was there for Sansa one last time on her birthing bed. She had shown no signs of illness before then, only fatigue. It was only days after Cassana was born that she started to lose her appetite and Davos began appealing for her to rest. Her illness only progressed from there, regardless of how many times Pylos examined her. Poor Davos. Though the children helped to distract him, he still mourned for her in all the moments he assumed no one else took notice. 

“Martha,” Stannis acknowledged, putting sad memories to rest, before stroking his daughter’s cheek. “And my little Cassana.”

A large toothless grin spread over her cheeks as she reached out to him. “Fa-fa-fa.”

Gripping her hand to place a warm kiss to the back of it, he asked, “How is she today?” 

“Well, my lord,” Martha answered. “I was just setting her down for a nap, that I might get the young misses from their playing.”

They were not yet old enough for proper lessons like the boys, and therefore their days were filled with various structured activities. Structured activities that they both shirked whenever possible to run the house like wild beasts. “You, at least, will be a fine lady. Won’t you?” He whispered to Cassana, who only giggled back at him. 

He sighed a defeated breath through his grin. “I suppose time will tell.” 

“Indeed it will, my lord,” Martha agreed as she curtseyed to carry on with the task of convincing Cassana to nap. 

It was another twelve long steps before Stannis was at his chamber door, and only another four between the door now locked behind him and his bed. Kicking off his boots, and loosening his cravat, he noticed a distinct lack of wife…

He had been up and dressed before dawn, off hunting before wake had even been a consideration for most. It had been difficult to leave Sansa so peaceful in her slumber, quickly snuggling into the warmth he left behind on his side of the bed, though he had managed. It filled him with a sense of pride to have the game he caught cooked and presented before her. He thought perhaps it was a call to the last vestiges of the more primitive days of man, and found no reason to attempt change.    

Upon his return, Davos told him that Sansa was feeling under the weather and not up and about the house. While she still kept chambers, it was doubtful that she would have taken to them for rest--Stannis had ensured that after a particularly rousing argument in their second year of marriage. Determined not to allow either of them to flee each other again, Stannis suffered only one night alone in his chamber before he ordered the bed removed from hers all together. He had done so while she was in the garden with Lady Cersei and Lady Margaery the next day, using the element of surprise to his advantage. The fury she assaulted him with once she discovered what he had done resulted in Serena. After that, she only kept chambers for more complicated dresses and for the sake of avoiding explanation should guests inquire as to the oddity of man and wife sharing a bed on a nightly basis.

“Sansa?”

Materializing to his call, the door to a smaller room complete with wash basin and other creature comforts swung open. Sansa stepped out, her long copper locks down over her shoulders to land at her elbows, her ivory nightgown loose over her large breasts and rounded belly. Her smile was warm and her step slow as she made her way toward him. 

“Davos said you were ill.”

A small smirk teased the corners of her mouth as she approached him. “Good.”

Good? She did not look unwell. Not at all. In fact, she looked quite lively at the moment. Stannis furrowed his brow as he asked, “Was he mistaken?”

“No.” 

Feeling more confused than before, Stannis began to ask her meaning when the words suddenly died in his mouth, swept up in the current of breath escaping his lungs.

Sansa stood bare before him in all her glory, having lifted her nightgown over her head and tossed it down on the floor beside her feet in one swift motion. Creamy flesh curved and rounded to form a body of perfection, while hard red puckered flesh accented all her most delightful places. “More like mislead,” she corrected in a low lust-laden voice.

Stannis lacked the ability to stop his hands from reaching for her belly, feeling the hard outline of his child before rising up and cup breasts full and burdened with milk. Her eyes fluttered shut at the touch and a soft moan escaped her lips, a waking call to what hid behind the civility of his trousers. 

Her small and nimble fingers ghosted over the back of his neck and thread into his hair as she urged him closer. Stannis eyed the lush lips before him, a slightly darker hue than the rose that bloomed in her cheeks and sprinkled over her collar bone. He was not fool enough to think that merely enjoying her nudity was enough to encourage such arousal--no, she had already been of a mind to take her satisfaction, misleading poor Davos to ensure it. 

The doctor had said she would birth within the month, and by the look of her, Stannis had no reason to doubt the estimate. He had always respected her periods of confinement regardless of how difficult they had proven to be, and knew he would be facing another all too soon. The sweep of her tongue over his sent more blood rushing to turn inclination to need. Anticipating her effect on him, she cupped the bulge in his pants and smiled against his lips when he broke their kiss to groan, “ _ Sansa _ .”

“I want you,” she admitted hungrily. Her teeth caught his bottom lip as her hand massaged over the fabric and buttons that restricted further growth. Letting go of his lip, her breath was warm against his neck. “ _ Inside _ me.”

His hands flew to the buttons on his trousers faster than coherent thought could rattle its way through his brain. The ache in his cock intensified in the open air, that much closer to her smooth flesh and wanton urges. A quick glance to the bed behind him had him shuffling her back toward it. She was much too with child now for him to lower himself over her, requiring that he either sit back on his heels as he took her or allowed her ride atop him. Her teeth gently nibbled on his neck while her hand wrapped around his cock and pumped not once, but twice for good measure. Reason was slipping away from him and he loathed the difficulty making a decision presented. “How do you…”

His voice caught mid-question at the feel of her open palm closing over the tip of his manhood, dew sticking to the heel of her hand. A rough breath shuddered out of him and he was helpless to stop himself from bucking into her hold. Her heavy lidded eyes glittered as she whispered, “Take me from behind.” 

“Behind?” He asked, uncertain. They tended only to use that position when they were in a mood to be particularly immoral together. 

Detaching herself from him completely, Sansa sighed and tucked her hair back over her shoulder as she walked toward the bed. A river of red waves hovered above a beautiful ass, each cheek lifting as her long legs moved. When she got to the bed, she paused to look back and say, “I have not known you to be hard of hearing,  _ my lord _ .” 

Her words struck him soundly in his loins. Stannis stepped out of the trousers pooled around his ankles and gripped his cock, tugging it helplessly as he watched her crawl up on the bed, her strong thighs parting to give him a tantalizing view. Every part of her, from the top of her head--turned to watch him approach--to the tips of her toes hanging off the side of the bed, was irresistible. Sansa had been beautiful before Stannis made her a woman and she was even more so now, filled with life.

His shins hit the side of the bed as he considered how he alone had changed her body and given her what no other man could--not if he valued his life. Stannis gripped her hips and pulled her back, closer to the edge so that he could press himself inside her heat. Wanting to savor this moment, he took his time, inching ever so slowly. “Is this what you wanted, darling?” 

Her response was a moan in the affirmative as her head dropped down and her breathing deepened. His thumbs dug into her hips, kneading and massaging the soreness there as he retreated as gradually as he had entered. 

“ _ Faster _ ,” she gasped.

He smiled, knowing  _ ‘harder’  _ was soon to follow in the directives issued during their intimacies. “No,” he denied her. “I don’t think I will.”

She groaned a mixture of excitement and disappointment. “Please?” 

Sansa was much more susceptible to carnal urges now than when she was not with child. Taking a sliver of pity on her, he said, “You know I worry when you are so far along.”

Refusing to allow his concern to dictate the nature of their relations, Sansa rocked back on him. She fisted the blankets beneath her as she promised, “The baby is fine--strong, healthy.” One hand lifted and held her belly, as if to make her point further evident. “We have had enough by now for me to know.” 

Stannis leaned forward, certain to bottom out and hold her still as he bent to kiss her shoulder. “Are you in such a hurry to face your confinement? I certainly, am not.” 

“You’re cruel,” she hissed. 

Rising up off her back, he gave another gentle thrust. “I’m in love.” 

She sighed, unwilling to deny that obvious fact. “Fine.” She turned her head away and then back again to relent. “I love you too.” 

He stifled a chuckle at her resignation. His thumbs drew circles into her hips as he gave a slow but forceful thrust forward. “Don’t be disappointed.” 

Her throaty groan of agreement had him gripping her harder to control himself as he sank further into her depths. 

“Stannis,” she breathed. 

Hearing his name on her lips in a fit of passion was always a beautiful sound. 

“Stannis,” she panted again. “Stop.”

Stannis slowed, unsure if he had heard her correctly. “Stop?” 

“Yes,” she gasped, her hands moving in the blankets, searching for something. “Put this on.” 

Stannis blinked as she held out a mask--the very same mask he wore to the masquerade he had hosted for her many years before. Stunned, he took it from her and inhaled sharply when she rocked back on her knees unexpectedly. “Put it on,” she repeated when he made no move to do so. 

Ever since they had witnessed Lady Cersei and her lover in the study, Sansa had suggested that they indulge in such bedroom theatrics, though they never had in all this time. Neither had they learned the identity of the man in the lion mask. With the children catching the fever the next morning, and the swift evacuation of all their guests, the mystery remained unsolved. “I had not thought you serious.” 

“I would not have kept it all this time if I did not wish you to wear it,” she replied with a small smirk. 

Unable to disagree with such logic, he put the mask on, tying the straps hastily as she clenched around him for encouragement and distraction. Seemingly amused by his reluctance to participate in her naughty game, she chuckled. “Why are you fussing over one simple request? I am the one who’s swollen and as large as a whale.” 

_ And who started this encounter.  _ He was too smart to dare utter that thought aloud. Instead, he glanced around her round belly and offered, “You might feel less irritable if you use a pillow.” 

Frustrated by his helpful suggestion, she growled, “If you’re quick, I don’t need the pillow.”

Stannis ran his hand back over the full globes of her ass as he teased, “You dislike it when I’m quick.” 

“I dislike it when you dottle,” she quipped back. 

Stannis’ breath turned hot in his mask. “Is this your fantasy? An affair?” 

She stilled, her neck craning to look back over her shoulder. “Of course not!” 

As he considered the nature of his wife’s fantasy more, his feelings suffered for it. “Yet you would have us mirror this very instance?” 

Sansa rose up as far as she could before requiring his assistance to rest her back against his chest. Stannis lowered one arm under her belly to relieve the burden of their child, while maintaining his position inside her--refusing to leave. She was out of breath from the maneuver and let her head fall back on his shoulder as she spoke. “No. I would have us mirror the position.” 

His other hand moved to her breast and rolled the sensitive nipple, both in punishment and adoration as she caught her breath in his arms. Again, she flexed around him and he tilted his hips for more friction. 

“And-” She paused to sigh contentedly. “I would have us pretend the secrecy necessary for an affair. Not an actual affair.”

“The secrecy?” He asked, kissing her shoulder. 

“Oh yes.” She smirked. “Everything is more exciting when it isn’t permitted.” 

For the briefest of moments, he thought of Brynden stealing an extra biscuit from the kitchen. The look of glee on his face as he bolted through the house, convinced he was a proper rogue in the making. Stannis chuckled in her ear before nipping at her lobe. 

Sansa squirmed against him. “If it was another man I desired, I would not be close to birthing your sixth child.” 

That was true. 

“And certainly, not in as little as eight years.”

That too was true. 

Regardless of the very logical facts she had presented to him, a tendril of possessiveness unfurled in his chest, tightening it and his arms around her. “Never again discuss the prospect of other men while you’re in my bed,  _ wife _ ,” he growled. Taking advantage of her turned head, Stannis covered her mouth with his, thankful that the mask did not obstruct their kiss this time around. She still tasted of the lemon cakes he had sent up to their room. Sansa had been craving them again, and knowing that, he made it a point to request cook make them on his way out to hunt.

She clenched around him and he gently pulled his lips from hers. Grinding his hips against her, he gave them both more friction, his words hot in her ear, “Feel me inside you--only me, forever.”

Her thighs trembled and her eyes closed. A soft sensual moan poured from her lips as she submitted. “ _ Yes _ .”

Stannis grinned proudly. Though his wife’s loyalty had never been in question, he found himself wishing to reward it. The hand on her breast moved back around to her shoulder blade and pressed. “Quick,” he responded, his voice much lower than before to better play her game. Unable to conceal the amusement in his tone, he whispered, “Before someone finds us.” 

Sansa chuckled as he helped to ease her back down to her palms. He paused long enough to reach over and slide a pillow under her. Her stubbornness did not negate the need and as her husband it was his duty and privilege to provide for her--whether she appreciated it or not.  

“Thank you.” She smiled so deeply that he could see the dimples on her cheeks even though she faced away from him. 

Massaging her hips again, he bucked just a little harder than he had before, still careful not to overdo it. Her resulting cry did things to him that only she seemed capable of. Stannis had never been overly religious, though after everything his heart had been through, he was certain that Sansa was a gift from God. One that he would never let go of. 

Shortly after the recovery of his children, Stannis approached Selmy to request retirement from the Navy so that he may devote more time to this unearthly creature and the children they shared. Unsurprised, Selmy chuckled around his cigar and told him that after seeing him and Sansa together, he had expected Stannis would abandon the sea in favor of being more of a presence at home. Unwilling to lose a man with a good head for strategy, Selmy declined his request for resignation, instead offering him a position training new recruits and consulting on various cases of high importance. 

Stannis had never imagined a life on land would suit him, and yet each day brought more contentedness than the previous. That was due to Sansa and the home she built with him, the kindness in her heart, and bravery her love provoked. 

She climaxed around him, gasping for air through strangled screams as wave after wave of her pleasure hugged him close. He was helpless to resist his own end, pulsing against the waves to fill her with his seed as ardently as if it were meant to take root. Sansa broke from him to collapse on her side, perspiration glistening her brow and matting her hair. 

As he ripped the mask from his face, he realized he had left his shirt on in his haste to have her and he tore it off quickly to lay naked beside her. He would feel her flesh against his from head to toe. His hand traveled over her belly and they both grinned at their child’s movement. Six children was uncommon in noble families, and a great deal for one woman to endure. They would have to be much more careful soon, take precautions. He simply was not willing to lose her to the dangers of childbirth and had told her as much on many occasions--to which she always replied that she was young and healthy and if she could survive twins, she could bring as many Baratheon babies into the world as their love saw fit. 

“Are you hungry?” She asked beside him, pulling him from his thoughts 

“No, though you are.” 

Sansa always asked if he was hungry whenever she was. “Am I to be blamed?” She asked, batting her eyelashes. Her voice turned demure as she explained, “The rigors of my husband’s desire for me saps me of all my energy.” 

Stannis laughed unabashed. “If I recall correctly, it was you who seduced me.” 

“Simply anticipating your every need, as any good wife would.” She grinned sinfully. 

“Sansa?” Stannis thought of something. 

“Hmm?” She thread her fingers through his and closed her eyes. 

“You told Davos you were unwell. How will you explain your miraculous recovery when he finds you in the dining room--in perfect health?” 

Sansa smirked as she said, “Oh Stannis, the only one fooled by my subterfuge this morning was you. Davos enjoys his role as conspirator too much to admit such knowledge.” 

Rising up on his elbow to stare at her in disbelief, Stannis was at a loss for words. She opened her eyes to see him hovering above and let loose a laugh that shook her belly. “You should see yourself.”

Stannis shook his head. “The things you do to me, woman.” 

“You love it,” she retorted. 

“I love  _ you _ ,” he corrected. 

She leaned up to press her lips to his. “And I you.” 

Stannis was caught by her sincerity, surprised by her kiss, though he should not have been. When it ended, she drew a deep breath and said, “Now feed me. Your child is hungry.” 

He smiled as he helped her sit up. “If this child eats as much once it is born as it forces you to do now, its appetite will deal a staggering blow to our resources.” 

Retrieving her gown, she lifted her nose in the air. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.” 

Stannis smirked. He was about to explain when she continued, “I know you aren’t insinuating that I have been eating any more than is expected in my condition, as that would be quite upsetting to hear.” 

“Of course not,” he denied.

“ _ Of course not _ ,” she emphasized, snatching a cloth from the night stand and dipping it into the water basin to clean herself with. “My husband, the great Lord Baratheon, is much too smart to ever insinuate such a thing about a lady.” 

“Sansa,” he protested, rising from the bed. 

She turned away. “My husband is a gentleman, who finds me beautiful in all the ways my body changes.” 

“Yes, Sansa,” he interjected again. 

“And he definitely prides himself in his ability to provide for his family,” she added, her tone firm. 

Stannis cleaned himself and shimmed back into his trousers. So close to birthing, it was difficult to discern how serious she was at times. Taking a chance, he winced as he asked, “Are you toying with me?” 

She stilled and he was certain he had guessed wrong. His best option was to find cover and hide behind it as she expressed her dissatisfaction with him. Instead, she said, “That depends.” 

“On?” 

“Bacon.”

“Bacon?”

Sansa turned to face him, her beautiful smile was wide and filled with mischief. “Yes, bacon. If there is bacon to be had, then I suppose I was just teasing you.” 

“I will get you bacon,” he vowed, because he definitely wanted her to be jesting, and because she was correct when she said he took pride in providing. 

Sansa reached for his cheek and ran her thumb over it. “I appreciate that you inquired as to my motives rather than assumed.”

Stannis smiled. “Assumptions are dangerous, Sansa. We know that more than most.” 

“And it is because of that-” She paused to place his hand on her belly. “That we have more than most.” 

Stannis closed his eyes and allowed the warmth of the moment to overtake him. That was until the woman sent from Heaven whispered a reminder, “ _ Bacon,  _ Stannis.”

“Yes, darling.”

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was unbetaed, but I just needed to get it off my "to post" list already and I figured after over a month of waiting, you wouldn't mind overlooking my comma nightmares lol.


End file.
